


to this vow, i hold fast

by lazulila



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, also background ashedue and dorogrid, background sylvix and setleth, lots of the blue lion kids and also my bad jokes, mostly anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 122,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25572955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulila/pseuds/lazulila
Summary: Several years after the unification of Fodlan, Dimitri hears unexpectedly from an old comrade, who offers him a most unorthodox way of rekindling a friendship. With a broken Kingdom to unite, and more conflict and war on the horizon, he can't say it's the worst idea.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 175
Kudos: 253





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after azure moon. Don't ask me where Rhea is, because I don't know. There are background ships mentioned, including but not limited to, sylvix, ashedue, and setleth. But, the focus will be on dimiclaude. Let's get these crazy kiddos married.

At this time of the morning, the castle is still quiet. The torches that dot the stone walls have burned low, low. Dim enough that he can see where they yield to the distant glow of the rising dawn at the end of the corridor. When Dimitri steps from the hallway’s shadows, over the threshold to the large hall, he’s greeted by rose-gold blushes of light. It’s cavernous and bright, in its gilded splendor.

His boots tap, tap, tap, slow, echoing, on tiled marble floors. The curtains have been lifted and tied off, letting him gaze through the towering windows and into the elaborate gardens with his one good eye, tired though it may be.

Slow-rolling mist settles along the green, green ground, setting dew to grass and tears to rose petals. The chill is nothing new to him, though its whispers breathe down the back of his neck and nip at his ears, his nose.

Already, the day looks as though it’ll be temperate. There are no clouds, the sun coming clear and crisp, almost too bright already.

When he stops at the large double-doors leading out to the veranda, he wonders if it will hold. If fortune would be so kind, to keep the sky so clear.

Clarity would be nice, once in a while.

As gently as he can, he lays a hand upon the door, and slowly guides it open. He becomes clumsy when his heart is in turmoil, and he has no desire to wake the castle to the sound of crashing glass.

He closes the door behind him with equal care, into fresh air and remnants of last night’s frost.

Dimitri takes one deep breath, letting his eye close. Then another, letting his vision return in a blur of sunny haze and colorful blooms.

He’s uneasy, but for the moment, the walk through the garden path is doing well to quell the doubting voices. Although unsure, he’s eerily calm, and not the way before a bout of madness or sullenness. For the moment, he’s just walking, as silent as can be, and enjoying the brisk air, the luminous shine of the many, many blossoms that line the walkway, smelling of pollen and clean cut vines.

The heavy cloak he’s thrown about his shoulders flutters about his calves from a breeze that rustles his hair, stings his eye in the sweet way that renews a spirit and brings his gaze skybound.

The weather will be fair today, and that would be nice.

After all, today is his wedding day.

\--

As he often does, he takes breakfast with Dedue, in a humbly decorated parlor, sitting on the far end of the wing where both their quarters reside. It’s quiet, out of the way, and they have less chance of being disturbed.

It’s still early, and the sun comes gently through the drapes. There’s a decorative inlay of stained glass flowers in one of the window panes, and Dimitri traces the shapes the colors make across the pale ivory tablecloth with his eye.

Contemplation starts to give way to nerves, and he’s more picking the bread into pieces than he is eating it.

“Am I doing the right thing, Dedue?”

Dedue sets his teacup down, and gazes across the table at Dimitri. Calm, ever steady. Somehow unjudging, even with how plainly he sees right through every layer.

So there’s no use hiding, or lying. Dimitri meets his gaze, allowing in the discomfort of being seen.

“You are anxious.” Dedue notes. ”I cannot tell you if this is the right thing to do or not. But you have thought this through very carefully, and made your decision.”

“Perhaps I am leading us all to ruin.” Dimitri can’t ignore the sullenness in his own voice, lowering as he goes back to picking his bread down to crumbs. Dedue briefly glances at his working hands.

Then he leans over, and gently squeezes Dimitri’s hand. “You would never.”

“But what if I do?”

“Would you still go through with it, if you truly thought it would bring disaster?”

Dimitri curls his hands on the table, clenching them tightly. Dedue’s hand is large enough to cover his.

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Then have faith in the choice you have made.” Dedue lifts his hand away, and piles an assortment of food onto Dimitri’s plate. “And eat more, your Highness. It will be a long day.”

“Dedue, I can’t eat that much!”

“Try.”

A breeze by the window bends tree branches, sways the shadows on the ground beneath. Blue sky, soft morning sun, and a thawing winter frost.

-

There’s cold in Almyra, but it’s usually kept to deep nights and early mornings. He hadn’t missed the chill that trails far behind the official end of winter.

From the view of his window, Claude can see past the treetops, to the landscape of the city below and beyond. Even farther than that, the mountain ranges. This is the land he’ll belong to, after today.

With a hand to the glass, he can feel the briskness of early Fodlan spring.

“If you complain about the cold _one more time_ , I’m going to send you to Dimitri wrapped in furs.”

“At least I would be warm.” Claude turns to Hilda, who is busy selectively parsing through jewelry box after jewelry box, and crosses the ornately woven rug to see what she’s narrowed down to.

Dressed in a gown of richly dyed berry pink, the bustier cut tight and low around her neckline, she barely passes him a look as she continues her humming.

“If you don’t pick something soon, I might not even get to Dimitri at all today.”

“Oh hush.” A glove of delicate rosy lace brushes back a lock of hair from her shoulder. “It’s your fault you didn’t plan this out sooner. Sit right there and let me try some things.”

Hands up in defeat, Claude obediently sinks down into a lushly cushioned chair.

While Hilda considers pieces, a mix from her own collection and a small myriad of gifts that he’d left Almyra with, Claude looks with vague interest at the small hinged container resting beside the enameled jewelry box.

“Here, let me try this.” Hilda takes his chin and turns his face, so she can hold up an earring to compare.

“Mmm...too gaudy.”

“Too gaudy? For _you?_ ”

“My taste is impeccable, you rude buck. Don’t forget I’m helping your sorry ass.”

He watches as she sets down a truly hideous mess of sparkling gems and makes a choked noise.

“You tried to put _that_ on me?”

“Hey, I was just testing it out!....But I’ll admit, they _are_ pretty bad.” She hums. “It was a gift. A really _bad_ gift. I’ll keep looking…”

Her perfume is special, today. Sweetly floral, but brightening at the same time. Sometimes she gets carried away in using it, but she’s shown restraint.

The next set of jewelry she tries is in much better taste, but she decides the amethyst doesn’t match well with his eyes, and is too dark anyhow.

“You _do_ realize Dimitri doesn’t care what jewelry I’ll be wearing. He won’t even notice.”

“It’s not just about Dimitri,” Hilda chides. “This is your first impression as his betrothed to _everyone_ . The court, his advisors, the public. You had better look _your best_ , Claude. And I won’t have you embarrassing _me_ , either.”

Badly wrestling back a grin, Claude makes a show of sighing and shaking his head.

“Whatever you say.”

“Ugh. Men just don’t _know_ about these things.”

But she’s right. Although _Dimitri_ won’t care what he’s gussied himself up with, there are those who will. No matter the country, there are always elites looking for any opportunity at all to pick a bone clean, and he’s sure there are no shortage of people who are less than pleased.

Many of the nobility, he’s already familiar with; many of them are his old classmates, turned over to power after the war had claimed so many of the old guard. But he’s been gone a long time, and setting foot back in a transformed landscape.

With Claude having only arrived from Almyra scarcely a week ago, most of the wedding preparations had been left in the hands of Dimitri’s staff. While he had been finishing his preparations back in Almyra for his departure, his own wedding was being planned to details that he hadn’t been privy to until he came.

This morning, they’ve been left mainly to their own devices, despite all the bustling they can hear going on through the hallways. From the window, there’s sounds of people moving and shouting in the garden, in the courtyards. No doubt there’s a small army of servants preparing for every possible need.

A royal wedding after a war is no small affair.

Ultimately, Hilda’s choices are simple, but elegant. A dangling gold earring, subtly inlaid with luminescent mother-of-pearl; a narrow circlet that she fixes into place.

When she catches him eyeing the innocuous little container again, she throws her hands up.

“Oh, just put the damn kohl on if you want it so badly!”

In Almyra, it’s common practice for a special occasion. It’s become so normalized for him in the years he’d been gone from this country, that he hadn’t even stopped to think about it before setting it in his travel bag before he left.

But he’s in Fodlan now, and men do not wear makeup.

“And what will the good people of Fodlan think?” Claude muses lightly. “Weren’t you just talking about first impressions?”

“I just want you to look _good_ , Claude.” Hilda presses the compact into his hand, and reaches across the dresser for a small vanity mirror to set in front of him. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll start a trend.”

“Goddess, I hope not.”

Hilda’s arms cross over her chest. Her eyes are on him, while his eyes are down in his lap. Idly, he rubs his thumb over the embossed metal, letting his thumb nail catch on a groove.

This is something precious in his hand.

Through her ladylike huff, he can feel her loving worry.

“We better get going.”

“What?” Hilda starts, making room for him to stand, “You’re not going to wear it?”

“Nah. It’s not important.”

“But it looks so _nice_ on you. Really brings out your eyes.”

Back into the jewelry box it goes; he closes it, clasps it shut. His hand lingers.

“I’m sure there are plenty of people unhappy with an Almyran taking their precious Savior King’s hand in marriage already.” Claude steps to the mirror, straightening his belt, delicate metal ornaments clinking softly from where they hang from a draping waistcloth. “No need to stir up more gossip by showing up with customs they don’t understand right away.”

“Bah. They’ll gossip no matter who Dimitri sits on the throne next to him.”

“True.” Claude strokes his beard, wondering if he should have shaved it off altogether. “But this... _all_ of this.... _could_ backfire.”

Hilda sets her hands on her hips. “I love you, but _goddess_ you’re hopeless. After all your scheming and planning to get here to begin with? What are you gonna do about it _now_?”

“Get married, I guess.”

With that, he starts for the door. Hilda’s skirts rustle as she hurries to follow him, catching his elbow. He allows her to take his arm, but she unexpectedly tugs him to a stop. Turns him around, but doesn’t look at him.

“Hm?”

“...Hopeless,” Hilda mutters again, pretending to smooth out the front of his doublet. “Absolutely hopeless.”

Her hair has been curled into cascading waves, pinned elaborately back from her face. Cheeks rosy with blush, lips painted coral to match, and running her hands down his arms to hold his wrists in her petite hands. Automatically, he turns them out so he can take her hands to hold, and in response she interlaces their fingers.

“This Almyran prince is good enough for a Fodlan king. Don’t you let them forget that.”

Here, in the shadowed threshold, they stand a moment, still and quiet. Claude lets the affection soak him warm, holds back the urge to pull her into a hug.

She doesn’t, though. She reads the notes in the air as he does. But unlike him, she doesn’t think herself away from them, and instead wraps her deceptively strong, thin arms around his back and tugs him to her.

“I can’t believe you’re getting married before me.” Hilda grumbles, head tilting back while he leans down to press their foreheads together. “At least you’ll be in Fodlan again, so I can keep an eye on you.”

Claude grins, his vision full of Hilda’s rosy eyes. “You, and not my husband to be?”

“Oh, his Highness is just as hopeless, don’t you know. Don’t expect too much.”

Another chuckle rumbles Claude’s chest, and Hilda slaps her palm to it.

“If he’s not good to you, I’ll kill him.”

“And start another war?”

Hilda hums, reconsidering. “You’re right, that would be way too much trouble.”

This one, Claude can’t hold back, and he laughs openly this time, and she shoves away from him.

“Oh, _dammit_ Claude, you ruined my makeup!”

Claude lets her go so she can hurry to the dresser mirror to fix it. Knowing that he hadn’t even touched the rest of her face, that her eyes were a little bit dewy, and that she would sucker punch him for calling her out on this particular lie.

As she’s fussing with her mascara, a knock at the door comes.

“Lord Riegan?” Comes a hesitant, questioning voice. “Everything has been prepared...we’re awaiting your presence in the main hall...”

“Oh _Goddess_ , Hilda, if you make me late for my wedding--”

“Hush!! It’ll just be one more second!!”

“ _Hilda!”_

\-- 

As the sun creeps higher to the destined hour, Dimitri has no choice but to face all of himself in a floor length mirror.

He had been crowned while clad in armor, but today, in a time of peace, he wears a tailored cobalt doublet. His house insignia, cast in gleaming silver and placed over his heart, pins a fluttering, navy cloak about his shoulder. Dark trousers, long leather boots adorned with gleaming silver buckles.

While he fixes his eyepatch into place, there’s a heavy rapping at the door before it opens noisily, with a familiar lack of finesse.

Dimitri glances over his shoulder to greet them with a smile that isn’t forced, as they close the door to his chambers behind them.

Although there’s no doubt that Byleth looks splendid in their ceremonial robes, if the way they’re mindlessly fussing with them just to get in the door is any indication...they aren’t quite comfortable in them.

Heavy brocades of cream and ivory, overlain with a dazzling array of delicately woven chains and ornaments. An elaborate silver and gold headpiece with dangling chains and gems sits atop their crown of pale hair. Byleth’s every movement sings like a wind chime. Catching Dimitri’s eye in the mirror, they quirk a bemused corner of their mouth.

“You _do_ look wonderful.” He assures them, noting the hems of their long sleeves are finished with a rich violet, the same shade that lines the high and spread collar, lines the inside of their sweeping robe.

No doubt Seteth had a heavy hand in shoving them into the garments to begin with.

“This is _awful_.”

Somehow, impossibly, Dimitri laughs.

“Try to endure it for just the time being.”

Byleth shoots him a wry look. They weren’t born into the pompous glamour that he had, and sometimes he thinks they may never be quite used to it. Byleth belongs more to the wilds they had been born to.

Last he had checked, the esteemed archbishop takes every chance to flee the halls of the monastery, preferring a game of dodging Seteth to bask in the sun, fish at the pond, than to sit at a desk.

But here they are for now. As tethered to their duty as Dimitri is to his own.

“Ready to go?”

Dimitri takes a long, deep, breath.

“A moment longer. Please.”

Byleth tilts their head at him inquisitively, peering at him in that peculiarly blank, all-knowing way they do. Once, he found it unsettling, as did most. Now, it’s like a warm, gentle rainfall.

Their voice has the same effect.

“...Dimitri? Are you alright?”

“I...admit. I am very unsure about all of this.” Dimitri concedes softly, “But this is, I believe, what one calls the point of no return.”

“There is no such thing.” Blyeth reminds him. “None. We move ever forward.”

For a moment, he can’t pull his thoughts together. Like broken ends of a thousand different threads, his worries all tangle to the same knot.

“I’m afraid this will turn out to be a disaster.”

The admission comes unbidden, at perhaps the worst moment at all. But Byleth doesn’t seem surprised in the least. Listening, simply listening, allowing his bluster to continue.

“What kind of man am I, Professor? What kind of king, but a beast shoved onto a gilded throne?...Perhaps this all is a mistake after all. Involving someone, _anyone_ else, in my foolishness.”

Claude is no fool, but he couldn’t possibly know what exactly he will be binding himself to. But he _will_ know, and he will _see_ , and _then_ he will...

Melancholy threatens to sweep him beneath a rising tide; he shuts his eye tight against it.

“Dimitri.”

Byleth’s voice calls him back, forever his beacon.

Slowly, he reopens his eye, the floor beneath him out of focus.

“It will be alright.”

Their hands have always been so much more petite than his own. As they have so many times before, they offer it to him now. Slowly, falteringly, he takes it, missing his gloves.

The less he can touch, the less he can ruin.

“You can’t know that.”

It sounds childish. Not what the voice of a king should be.

“No,” Blyeth shrugs, more thoughtful than dismissive. “But you’ve come this far. And you made this choice, just as Claude did. See it through, and maybe you can do the great things that you can’t accomplish alone. Wasn’t that the whole idea?”

One more deep breath. And another.

Too vividly, he feels where Blyeth runs their thumb over his knuckle.

“You are right.” Dimitri gives, setting his shoulders just a little further back. As though he really is certain. Pretending, as always, that his mask fits the face. It is what he will have to do.

_We move ever forward._

“Let us go. I believe I am ready.”

Nodding, Byleth keeps his hand in theirs as they begin leading him away.

“And if you really get cold feet,” They suggest, “We could always hop out a window on the way and elope.”

“P-Professor!” For the second time, Dimitri breaks into laughter.

“Claude would never see that one coming. Or maybe he would?” They muse, humming. “It’s really hard to know with him.”

“I beg you, stop that!”

He lifts a hand to cover his mouth, Byleth pursing their lips against a smile threatening to make its way out.

“How far do you think we could make it before they realized we were gone?” Byleth whispers conspiratorially, and Dimitri chokes back a retort in favor of trying to stifle himself.

As they make their way through the hallways, blanketed by lush rugs and dotted with casually shining treasures, Byleth keeps their steps slow, unhurried. Dimitri doesn’t quite know why, but he gladly matches their pace, enjoying the glimpses he catches from the windows, how the light trickles and catches on Byleth’s numerous ornaments.

Relishing the quiet is all the easier, all the sweeter, knowing it will probably be the last true peace he knows well into this evening.

As they approach the main hall, Byleth squeezes his hand one more time before releasing it, fingertips brushing down his bare palm.

Both of them have calloused hands, worn as hard and tempered as the steel they’ve held.

“I almost feel like I’m giving you away.” Byleth muses, pushing a lock of hair back from their face.

“Pardon?”

“You know, isn’t that how weddings usually go?” Byleth tilts their head at him again. “Don’t the parents give their child away to the new family or something?”

“Ah,” Dimitri acknowledges. “Yes, that’s one tradition. Fodlan has many, depending on where you go.”

Byleth hums, admitting, “I haven’t been to many weddings.”

“Please tell me you have prepared for this one.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I had to sit through many more recitals than you can imagine,” Byleth heaves an aggrieved sigh. “I don’t think I could have handled reading those scriptures one more time.”

“I certainly hope you can, otherwise I won’t be married today after all.” Dimitri remarks, and Byleth throws their head back with a bark of laughter.

“Fine. _One_ more time.”

With that, they reach the pair of large wooden doors leading out to the central wing of the castle. From there, Byleth would have to leave Dimitri in the hands of his retainer, who would then guide him through yet another maze of hallways to the audience chamber.

There, his counselors, his friends, his trusted circles of supporters, dignitaries from lands near and so, so far, wait.

There, also, is where he would meet his betrothed, at the altar.

Of course, Dedue is waiting as they push through the heavy doors, arms folded respectfully before him. He gives an efficient nod to Byleth, who returns the gesture with only slightly more flourish, and gives Dimitri one more mischievous smile.

“Last chance.” Their voice twinkles. Past them, Dedue lifts his brow questioningly. For the sake of his composure, Dimitri ignores it.

“I will be quite alright. You have done more than enough, Professor.” He assures, and gives them a quick half bow at the waist. “I will be seeing you shortly.”

Byleth’s grin melts, the fondness reaching their eyes.

“Until then.”

\--

_It’s fall. The wind brushes the green from the landscape, leaving it gold and copper. Days become brighter and shorter, the nights chilled. The air, crisp and sweet as a fresh apple._

_Harvests are collected, and the country heals, slowly, slowly. For the first time since the war, there is enough bounty to honor, and enough people to celebrate it._

_On one of the deeper days of autumn, late into Wyvern Moon, Dimitri is presented with an unmarked letter while in his office._

_There are leaves brushing by the window, casting gentle shadows through the glass, as he breaks the golden wax seal._

_He’s surprised to find none other than Claude’s distinct handwriting, casually announcing his intent to visit._

Almyra’s a bit of a walk from Faerghus, so I hope you won’t deny an old friend some time _, he writes._

I’m settling affairs here to prepare for my absence. With any luck, I’ll arrive around the middle of Red Wolf Moon. Can’t wait to see what you’ve done with Fodlan firsthand.

_The messenger who had delivered it had brought it from house Goneril, to ensure it would end up in his hands._

_The details were vague, it came through through proxy, and offered little to no hope of returning the correspondence, as Claude had given no hint as to where he was writing from. Dimitri supposed that Claude was being as careful as ever._

_Whether or not Claude had any reason to be so secretive, or it was just his nature showing itself, is hard to say._

_Still, he summons Ingrid, the captain of his king’s guard. She arrives at his office with wind bitten cheeks, bowing as she enters. She’s surprised when she’s instructed to inform the soldiers to be prepared for the former Alliance leader’s arrival in a few weeks. Discreetly._

_“Claude’s coming to Fodlan?”_

_“It seems that way.” Dimitri hands her the letter, and waits while she parses through it._

_“He’s always been a shrewd one,” Ingrid muses. “He makes it sound like a purely social visit, but if I know anything about him, there’s more to it.”_

_“I agree.” Dimitri pours and offers her tea, which she gratefully accepts._

_“Still, the gall! To just tell you he’s showing up? He knows you won’t refuse him.” She huffs, disturbing the steam rising from her cup. “You’re king of all of Fodlan. You can’t be available at his whimsy.”_

_“But you spoke the truth of it. He wouldn’t come for no reason,” Dimitri paces slowly while he thinks. He can’t tell the taste of the tea very well, but it’s warm in his hands. “And so it must be important. I will see him, when he comes.”_

_“You don’t think he could be plotting something, do you?”_

_Ingrid asks this, but there’s nothing resembling suspicion in her tone. It’s her pragmatism._

_“It’s Claude. It is almost certain that he’s plotting something.”_

_Ingrid is wearing the same shade of smile as he, eyes sparkling with humor. Both are thinking of a time long, long ago, when Claude was the suspect of many a shenanigan at Garreg Mach....but never caught. “But I do not think it’s of malicious intent.”_

_“So then, Your Highness, why the secrecy? Why tell the captain of your castle guard first, if you don’t suspect him?”_

_“Secrecy, because that’s so obviously what Claude wants. And I tell you, simply so he won’t be stopped at the gate.”_

-

Sun streams through massive windows in the royal audience chamber. Fluttering as the drapes and banners do.

Royal blue cloth, decorative ropes of gold thread. Air sweet with scented candles, disguised behind frosted glass screens, with bouquets of proudly blooming flowers arranged around the hall.

Rows of dignitaries and nobles are filed in, guided to their seats. Each wear their finest, all in their house colors, stamped with their sigils. While a handful of musicians gently raise a serenade, the guests of honor enter through the side doors. Those closest to the grooms, are brought to the front to line themselves beside the large altar. Behind it hangs a large tapestry, embroidered with the Blaiddyd lion.

Hilda arrives a few beats after them, trying to disguise her fluster while she smooths her skirts and hair. Seteth, adding finishing touches to the altar, raises an eyebrow at her, but says nothing. She gives him a cheery smile and a shoulder shrug.

The crescendo of the violin heralds the archbishop’s arrival. A pair of guards open the majestic wooden doors, carved with frolicking animals and botanical patterns, making way for Byleth to walk regally down the center aisle, the carpet lined with delicate flower petals.

Byleth comes to a stop once they reach the podium, dutifully turning and giving a gracious nod of their head, permitting the audience to have their seats.

Through the still open doors of the chamber, Byleth can see out into the main hall, aglow with the strong daylight.

It is almost too bright, too pure.

The robes are heavy. They may as well be Byleth’s armor.

Maybe that’s what they are. Armor for peace time, come at a costly price. They may be able to say which they prefer, but they can’t tell which they were more comfortable wearing.

At the prolonged pause, a couple of the guests shift. Someone clears their throat.

Next to them, Ingrid blinks and passes a look to Sylvain, who simply gives her a subtle shrug of his shoulder.

Seteth leans in and catches Byleth’s eye, questioning.

They smile. Bring him from the corner of their eye to be their focus instead.

At the assurance, he nods and returns to impeccable posture, hands folded behind his back.

Byleth gazes outward. Closes their eyes for the briefest of moments, long eyelashes shadowing their cheeks.

A breath. The music goes silent.

They open their eyes, tilt their chin up high, and begin to speak.

\--

_Dimitri hears Claude before he sees him, as he and Dedue are walking through the hallways between meetings._

_“You keep trying to deny it, but I_ know _it was you who mixed adhesive into my ink bottle. I tore through three parchments in the middle of class! It was embarrassing.”_

_“Come on, Ingrid, it was like ten years ago. Also, it still wasn’t me.”_

_Dimitri perks up at the familiar voices, not realizing that he’s slowed his steps until Dedue stops himself short to keep from colliding into him._

_Ingrid and Claude round the corner and spot him quickly enough. The former lights up, clapping Claude on the shoulder with a hand heavy enough to buckle him._

_“Your Highness! Look who I found out at the front gates, crawling from the Fodlan wilderness!”_

_“I was not crawling.” Claude clarifies quickly, with a wave of his hand. “Not crawling. I walked. Very dignified-like.”_

_“From the wilderness?” Dimitri echoes with a laugh, and quickens his pace to greet him properly with a handshake._

_Claude takes his hand with a sure grip before pulling him in, throwing an arm around his shoulder. The gesture is a little unexpected, sudden, but Dimitri allows the embrace to happen, his arm coming around Claude’s back._

_For a moment, they hold, Claude still cold from the winter air._

_When they release, each share the same smile. The reunion of a long lost comrade in arms, friends from more innocent days._

_“Good to see you, Dimitri.”_

_\---_

_Regrettably, Dimitri can’t entertain him for long at the moment. They can scarcely sit for a few minutes before he has another meeting to attend._

_He leaves Claude with a promise to meet again for dinner that evening._

_“Please, rest until then.” He urges, “I’m sure it was arduous travel.”_

_“Oh, don’t fuss over me too much,” Claude waves his hand. “I did pretty much just barge in on you. I’ll occupy myself somehow until you’re freed up.”_

_Sitting through hours of banal meetings leads to hours at his desk, reviewing reports and signing off on various documents._

_He reads through disagreements over taxation, reports of skirmishes between neighboring territories, their borders blurred between changing hands and fallen houses. There are pleads for rations to a drought-stricken region in the south, along with requests for repair along the roads to get them there. And guards to patrol them, to ward off those left desperate from the war, turned to banditry._

_By the time Dimitri actually makes it to his own dining room, Dedue in tow, he’s hardly in the mood to eat himself. Still, he goes, arriving as the sky outside breathes ink, stars beginning to glisten._

_“My, my, you eat quite late.” Claude makes a move to stand upon his appearance, but stops when Dimitri dismissively waves his hand, resettling himself. There’s a pleased glimmer to his smile as he watches Dimitri seat himself._

_“I often do. I apologize, were you waiting long?”_

_“No, no worries, friend.” Claude nods to Dedue in greeting, who returns the gesture. “Not very many people can claim they can have dinner with the king of Fodlan the very same day they arrive.”_

_“I suppose.” Dimitri sighs, weary. “And how did you spend your day?”_

_It’s a quiet end to the evening. Dimitri fruitlessly argues against Dedue serving his plate. While they do, Claude piles food onto Dedue’s, distracting them both._

_There’s a few seconds of silence. Then Dedue stares at him as though affronted, shocked, and Dimitri loses himself in a fit of laughter he tries to smother it into his napkin._

_Claude sits himself back down, satisfied, sips his wine, and recalls his uneventful afternoon of wandering the grounds and resting in the quarters Dimitri so generously provided._

_“Very hospitable, considering how I invited myself. Ingrid chewed my ear off for that. Her tongue hasn’t dulled one whit, has it?”_

_Over the coming days, Dimtiri does try and make the time for Claude where and when he can. He is as hard to find as Dimitri himself knows he can be, given the scope of the castle and his busy schedule._

_But rather than having an overwhelming amount to do, Claude has little. He spends the time venturing into town, practicing archery at the ranges. Goes riding, sometimes with Ingrid, sometimes inviting some of Dimtiri’s staff along._

_Hilda appears not long after Claude has, which isn’t a surprise. If Claude alone is enough to add more headaches to Ingrid’s day, the pair is enough to top off the wine in her glass at the end of her day._

_Three weeks into Claude’s stay in Fhirdiad, Felix arrives in the capital to confer with Dimitri over the situation with Sreng._

_He learns that Felix is in the castle when rather than a greeting, the Duke Fraldarius demands to know why the former Alliance leader is casually wandering the castle grounds._

_“I didn’t know you were entertaining him.”_

_Felix’s verbal shrapnel is nothing new to Dimitri, who stands before his desk with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, mouth tense and eyes narrowing in distrust._

_“You ran into him?”_

_“I did,” Felix raises his chin, jawline sharp as the rest of him, “And he couldn’t give me a decent answer as to why he was here. Not that he’ll ever give a real answer to anything at all.”_

_“What did he tell you?”_

_“Says he’s here to see old friends and sightsee.”_

_“Seems straightforward enough. And that doesn’t satisfy you?”_

_Of all the company Dimtiri holds close, Felix remains one of his closest. He sees what others may miss in their faith in Dimitri, and unleashes his opinions without hesitation._

_What’s more, Ingrid has likened Claude to Sylvain more than once. Both capable individuals, if they saw the cause worthy of their effort,duplicitous if and when it serves them. Keeping things hidden away behind a charming smile and a wink. He and Claude might not have been the closest of friends, but if anyone knows how to handle Sylvain, it’s Felix._

_“No.” Felix leans his hip on the edge of Dimitri’s desk. “He doesn’t do anything without reason. It’s all calculated.”._

_“Not even a visit to see friends he hasn’t since he left after Derdriu?”_

_Felix raises an eyebrow. “Are you that naive?”_

_Calmly, Dimitri leans into his elbows, raising his hands and interlacing his fingers to perch his chin atop them. For a moment, he looks at his advisor, who looks back at him with simmering fire, waiting for Dimitri to throw the tinder to the flame._

_He won’t._

_“No.”_

_A subtle flicker in the muscles around Felix’s eyes beg explanation._

_“Ingrid and Dedue are watching him, as well as others, which I’m sure he’s aware of. So far, neither of them have reported anything of note.”_

_“So you were suspicious of him from the start.”_

_With a sigh, Dimitri admits, “I did not want to be. I still do not. I think of him as a friend, and have every intention of believing him as such. But as one rude awakening after another has taught me, to blindly trust is...irresponsible.”_

_Felix scoffs. “So at least you’ve learned that much. You’re free to ruin your own personal life as much as you want, but too many people died and suffered for you to ruin it all by having too much nostalgia for an old schoolmate. Remember that.”_

_“An old school mate, and an old friend from the war, who handed us the Alliance to unite.”_

_“Ah, yes. Surrendering his claim to leadership in order to leave the mess all to you, and vanish to another country. I’ll remember to thank him for the additional headaches.”_

_“What did you talk to him about?”_

_“Nothing. He asked why I was here, and I told him to see you. I asked why_ he _was here, and he told me the same thing. That was it.”_

_The sun is setting outside, the golden hour of the afternoon giving over to shades of vibrant roses. It sets a strong, sharp line of light over Felix’s form, eyes cautionary and protective at once while he stares Dimitri down. Every bit as honed and unbending as the blade on his hip._

_“Riegan wants something from you, Dimitri. Be careful.”_

_After that, they turn to Felix’s news from the north. While there had been much cause to celebrate the war’s end in Fodlan, peace had yet to touch every corner of the newly united country._

_Seeking to take advantage of the war-ravaged nation, Sreng had made an attempt at Gautier and Fraldarius borders. Nothing significant._

_“Yet.” Felix warns. “They’re testing us. Seeing how tired we are of battle and war, if we’ll let our guard down, now that there’s peace.”_

_They are all very tired of battle and war; part of Dimitri hates that he has sent his friends back home, only to find more of it waiting for them. More of that perpetual razor’s edge, that taste of a storm in the air before the thunderclap, deep in the frozen wilds where the sun couldn’t reach but for a few frigid hours a day._

_So Felix had left the Fraldarius territory under Sylvain’s watch while he came to give Dimitri his take._

_“He’s competent when he cares enough to be. More than my uncle, who has never seen a battlefield.”_

_Dimitri considers everything Felix has told him. He had grown up with the threat of the north, and seen the same war as he. If he has come to give Dimitri his counsel in person, it’s because he isn’t taking this lightly, and Dimitri would be a fool if he did._

_“What do you need?”_

_“Hunters.”_

_Dimitri blinks._

_“Not soldiers?”_

_“Hunters.” Felix repeats curtly. “The best you can find, if only a handful. If there are any youth that want to work, learn a trade, send them north.”_

_They’ve just come out of war. Grimly, but truthfully, there are many._

_“But if they’re useless, I’m kicking them back to your doorstep.” Felix warns. “The north is no place for layabouts, and I have no beds for those who won’t earn it.”_

_Felix is looking to gather hands to train, to help learn run a household. He’s not saying it directly, but he’s preparing for blood-soaked snow._

_“You will have them.” Dimitri promises. “And anything else you require.”_

_Part of him hopes that Felix will stay at least a few days longer. It has, after all, been several months since he's seen him, part of him hoping to mend their long-strained friendship some more. But the man grows more anxious with each passing hour, pacing the halls like a caged wolf until he finally makes his bid to leave, announcing his intent to return to Dimitri and Dedue at breakfast the very next morning._

_This, also, does not bode well._

_Perhaps he is worried for Sylvain, who acts alone in his stead. Maybe he is imagining all that could go wrong in his absence, an attack he wouldn't hear from the gated lands of the royal estate, all the way in Fhirdiad._

_Nonetheless, Dimitri bids him safe travels, and watches him swing upwards into the saddle of his horse, and ride, urgently, towards the horizon._

_The horizon, on which he can almost imagine the storms beginning to brew._

_\--_

“On behalf of the United Kingdom of Fodlan and the Church of Seiros, we thank all of you, our esteemed guests, for being here today.” 

Byleth’s voice carries clearly through the heavy velvet curtains, all that keep Dimitri separate from the rest of the room. An attendant on either side holds ready the drawstrings to pull them back.

Moments. Mere moments to wait.

One slow and steady breath after another does little to calm Dimitri’s rapid pulse. Strange, how he can be so bold on a battlefield, and fearlessly in command of a meeting chamber, and yet the idea of being wed before his friends and guests is what makes him nervous.

Clenching a trembling fist, he has to wonder again, if this will all be yet another blunder of his. As though he needs even one more blemish for his irredeemable self.

Claude was a man of war, as he is. Was. But he’d had mercy, had never known madness. Doesn’t know the depths of Dimitri’s. Yet.

Yet.

Though he’d been warned.

Warned, weighed the risks, and agreed anyway.

“On this, the fifteenth day of Great Tree Moon, year 1192, we have gathered here, in Fhirdiad, for a most blessed and momentous occasion.” Byleth continues. “Our king has chosen to be faithfully bound in marriage.”

Their voice is smooth and mellow, as measured and timed as a music piece. Although he’s well aware how they normally dodge such performances, they had agreed to marry him.

Until Dimitri himself had asked, Blyeth had no inclination of officiating.

 _“I’m not a minister.”_ They’d yawned behind their fingers and stretched across a sun-warmed stretch of grass.

 _“But you_ are _the Archbishop, and this will be perhaps the most important marriage for many years,”_ Seteth had urged, weary but determined. _“There is no one else better suited to do it.”_

Byleth had never wanted to take up the mantle; but that is what Rhea had wanted, and even though that did not move them, Seteth’s begging had ultimately won out.

_“Please.”_

Byleth’s eyes opened slowly, and blinked at Dimitri in question.

 _“I..”_ Dimitri had sighed, taking a moment to gather his words. “ _Although this isn’t...a marriage of...well, love, or passion...it is of a more personal nature than most of my official business. I know you loathe formality and obligation, and naturally, I cannot make you. But...you have given me so much guidance over the years, and it would mean something to me if you would.”_

While a cloud slowly rolled overhead, gentle as a dandelion breeze, Byleth gazed at Dimitri. As usual, none of their thoughts showed on their face.

_“Okay, then.”_

And now, here they are.

\--

_A fresh snowfall makes for a beautiful landscape, but hardly an easy morning stroll._

_“It’s nature’s way of telling us to leave it alone.” Claude jests while they wade through snow that reaches their knees, boots pulled high as they can go over their trousers._

_“It’s almost a shame to ruin it.” Dimitri agrees, blinking away a few flakes that sprinkle his face, blown about by the breeze._

_The hour was still early when Claude had insisted they venture out into the elements, already bundled in a thick leather coat, the fur lining peeking up around the collar and beneath a massive woolen scarf that he threw around his neck._

_He had claimed he was already long awake, in time to greet the sun. Dimitri looked outside, saw the snow, and couldn’t deny he wouldn’t mind trading the castle air for something fresher._

_They were already a mile out onto the sprawling castle grounds, approaching the edge of a forest path that would give way to another field. It isn’t often that Dimitri takes the chance to venture out simply because he wants to; Claude’s presence somehow frees him to do so._

_A few years of Almyran sun have blushed his skin to deep copper. A few years of peace haven’t softened him, either, as the trek hasn’t so much as labored his breathing. He jokes easily with Dimitri, his tone light and cheerful as a songbird._

_But he keeps his distance. Always, at a distance._

_The bare branches criss cross above them like fallen piles of bones; light still shines through, almost blinding after the depths of Fhirdiad’s night._

_Still, they move on, leaving trenches in the snowfall behind them._

_“How hot does it get in Almyra?”_

_“Like an oven. Parts of the country would laugh at your idea of summer.” Claude tells him. “You poor little northern lads would bake in an instant.”_

_It begins to snow again as they move on, reaching the end of the trail and the edge of the enormous meadow, blanketed in snow._

_Claude stops, and so does Dimitri. Undisturbed, it looks like a silver ocean, the dips and rises of the earth allowing the illusion of waves._

_Together, they look outwards, their breaths forming clouds in the frigid air. Everything seems so still, so quiet. At the sound of a sparrow taking flight from a nearby tree, Claude’s eyes flicker upwards, briefly, the curve of his mouth setting in as though frozen._

_“It_ is _beautiful here.” He says softly. “In some ways, I did miss it, even though Almyra is home to me.”_

_To this, Dimitri has no reply. He simply surveys the landscape, enjoying the solitude and peace. He so rarely has such a quiet moment anymore._

_“...Tell me, Dimitri, is there anyone special in your life?”_

_“I-I’m sorry?” Taken aback, Dimitri blinks._

_“You know. A lover. Someone you cherish, or whatever the right old term is. Anyone come to mind?”_

_He cannot say that someone does. There are many special people in his life but....not like how Claude describes._

_“No. I can’t say that I have someone like that.”_

_Claude smirks. “You wouldn’t lie to me about this, would you? You’re not holding back, right? Promise me.”_

_This, Dimitri can attest to. Even if he had any spare time or energy for a partner, there is no one. Romance is...an abstract concept to him. Something that has been so far removed from his thoughts for so long, buried below so many other things, and yet somehow he still has it in him to blush._

_The king of the united Fodlan, a veteran of savage war and bringer of so many deaths,_ blushes _when his former classmate asks if he has a lover._

_“I can promise you that much, Claude.” He grits out, “There is no one, and...why are you even asking me this? What does that matter?”_

_“Well, it matters very much who a king is courting.” Claude strokes his chin thoughtfully. “But I hope you were being truthful, otherwise that makes this next part very, very embarrassing.”_

_Dimitri frowns. “Please explain.”_

_“I’m sure you know me well enough to know that as much as I adore you, and my friend, I do, I do, believe me on that...you know that Almyra is a very long ways away for a casual stroll. You’re too smart to think I would be here for no reason, and I’ve made you wait to find out what that reason is. I have a proposal for you...well, literally, come to think of it.”_

_Claude shifts, so he can look at Dimitri directly. There’s an uncanny focus in every way he moves now, his eyes searching and grandly bright._

_“Five years ago, I left Fodlan to reclaim my birthright. I left this country a former leader of the Alliance, and I have come back to it as a recognized and legitimate prince of Almyra, where my father sits on the throne.”_

_The admission is enough to send Dimitri mentally reeling. Yet after the briefest of pauses, before he even has time to process it, Claude brings him one more._

_“I’m here to ask for your hand in marriage.”_

_\---_

_“_ I call them forth now, that we may be graced with their presence, to bear witness to their union.” Byleth raises their hands to both sides, palms turned upwards so they catch the rays of sun streaming through the glittering windows.

“Our Savior, King Dimitri Alexander Bladdiyd of the United Kingdom of Fodlan…”

With that, the curtains are swiftly drawn back, and Dimitri steps forward.

First, he sees Byleth, resplendent, his guiding light. It is towards them that he begins to walk, over the carpeted path towards the center of the room, where on the far side of the hall, he can vaguely make the drapes moving in a sway of fabric.

Next, he sees his friends, acknowledging his arrival with a hand over their heart and a slight bow at the waist. Ingrid’s smile is brimming with such affection that he can hardly stand to be faced with it; Sylvain puts him at ease, giving him a pat on the shoulder as he passes. At his side, Felix catches Dimitri’s eye and nods sharply, when the next second Dimitri has to subtly catch Dedue by the arm to keep him from bowing more deeply than he ever ought to, for the friend that Dimitri considers him to be

Byleth and Seteth acknowledge him with a respectful bow, which he returns. On the opposite side of the altar, he sees Hilda, stunning as she will always take the chance to be, and Nader, an intimidating and jarring presence next to her. Judith, less so, but still imposing.

“....and First Crowned Prince of Almyra, Claude von Riegan.”

The sound of that name has never stopped Dimitri’s beating heart in his chest, but it does now.

And at the sound of his name, Claude comes into view as the curtains are drawn back, coming closer with every step, with a poise that Dimitri is quite certain that he has never seen him with.

A long garnet tunic, the fabric given a sheen by a richly woven gold damask pattern, fitted at the shoulders and cinched at the waist beneath a folded cloth sash. A belt is carefully fixed over it, from which a dozen delicately patterned chains hang, overlaid and swinging with his movements to clink gently against his hip.

The collar is high and stiff beneath his raised chin, the bottom hem long enough to hit his knees, drifting gently above the cuffs of shined leather boots, and the stark white legs of his trousers.

Between the gold he wears and the regality he adorns, it is hard to tell which gleams brighter. Sunlight catches the jewelry in blinding flickers of light, as they do his eyes; they are focused, focused on Dimitri, the ever easy smile betraying nothing.

Yet, there’s still a familiar, relaxed manner to the way he walks, somehow naturally blended with the majestic air he’s presented himself with today. Sweet, in the way he pauses to bow for Nader and Judith, gives Hilda a kiss on the cheek.

And then he is standing before Dimitri, shimmering gold and green, in rays of sun that were born for him.

Dimitri realizes that he should give his betrothed a smile; realizes that he already is.

Together, they stand now before Blyeth, who bows once more, slowly, deliberately.

“Today, you have come together to pledge an oath to one another.” Byleth continues, rising. There’s the slightest bit of strained quality to their voice, and Dimitri remembers how little they normally speak to begin with, much less how rarely they must speak so loudly as to fill an audience hall.

They must be aching to be rid of the attention, the robes they clearly hate, the spotlight they would just as surely cast off this very second, if only they could.

On one hand, he feels perhaps a little guilty; he had asked it of them, after all. On the other...

He catches Claude’s eye, and sees what is very clearly a barely held back grin. Byleth’s barely veiled distress is easy to see this close, and Dimitri quickly has to fend off any show of amusement at all.

For just the moment, they are schoolboys again, exchanging mischievous glances across the classroom.

Byleth clears their throat, in the exact way they would if they caught someone falling asleep in their chair, and Dimitri has to shut his eye to keep his composure in check and take a deep, steadying breath.

When he opens it again, Claude is still looking at him, raising an eyebrow and doing nothing to stop the curve of his lip.

In the time it takes for Blyeth to turn towards the mantle, retrieving a long strip of folded cloth, their humor has barely faded. But at least his nerves have lessened, and he can focus on the passages that the archbishop begins to recite aloud.

“ _So the streams join the mighty river, your lives now intertwine;_ _  
__As the paths climb mountains, so shall you._

 _With hands joined, and steps in tandem,_ _  
__In marriage shall you journey, to the end of your days._

 _May the blessings of our Goddess light your way_ _  
__through the darkest nights, the most violent storms,_ _  
__For your faith, your life, will lead you as one,_ _  
__As you will lead one another.”_

As they carefully begin to unfold the ribbon, of the purest white silk, weighted at each end with a golden chrysanthemum pendant. Dimitri offers his hand forward, palm upwards, so that Claude can reach forward to meet it with his own.

His grip is gentle, the pads of his fingers calloused, as Dimitri’s are; lightly scarred and notched along the knuckles. And yet somehow, somehow, gentle, and maybe it’s the sun that has done it, but they are so very warm.

Slowly, Byleth begins to ceremoniously drape the cloth around each of their wrists, weaving them together.

“ _Forever shall you lift and guide one another,_ _  
__Never to betray, never to spite or curse,_ _  
__Forgive each harm done with learning,_ _  
__Patience and love._

 _Forever may you promise,_ _  
__Forever may you walk,_  
_Each word a thought of your heart,_ _  
__Spoken to this one you share._ ”

Finished binding the cloth, Blyeth gently lays theirs atop their joined hands.

“King Dimitri Alexander Blaidyyd, I call upon you now, to pledge your life, your loyalty, your love, in matrimonial vow to your betrothed, Prince Claude von Riegan. To walk this world for and with him, as his husband and partner in all things life has to bring from this day forward.”

Dimitri finds Claude’s eyes again with his own. This time, the breath stills in him altogether. To gaze at gems so green, so faceted and bright, to explore the face of the man whose hand he holds now, determined and yet so mysterious in its depths. He has known him for years, but like the sands of the deserts from which he was born, those depths are ever shifting, rendering every map uniquely wrong.

_I have a lifetime to learn you._

“I, Dimitri Alexander Blaidyyd, do so humbly vow.”

Faintly, a look akin to fondness flickers across Claude’s features; so quickly, it could have been another trick of the light. Perhaps even yet another misdirection.

“Prince Claude von Riegan,” Byleth calls softly, “I call upon you now, to pledge your life, your loyalty, your love, in matrimonial vow to your betrothed, King Dimitri Alexander Blaidyyd. To walk this world for and with him, as his husband and partner in all things life has to bring from this day forward.”

“In this, I, Claude von Riegan, do so promise with all my heart.”

Quietly, Seteth appears at Byleth’s side to pass them a small porcelain tray, upon which a cloth of deep violet velvet, lay their rings.

Dimitri’s is silver, the inside of the ring a bright, shining gold; Claude’s inverted, with gold on its outside and the silver glistening as ice along the inside of the band. But the designs match, a subtle pattern engraved along its polished curve.

Carefully, Dimitri takes the ring, and lifts Claude’s hand ever so slightly so he can slide it onto his finger, while Byleth prays softly.

“So the stars shine at night, and the clouds bring rain…”

Claude returns the gesture, turning their hands so he can do the same, his fingers warm as they brush over Dimitri’s, the ring coming to rest so naturally at the base of his ring finger.

“...As the winds breathe, the oceans churn, as the sun’s rays brim with our Lady’s smile…”

And then Claude’s hand draws back, and Dimitri might have missed it, if not the other, the one he still holds, its weight so surprisingly welcome on his own.

“....May our Goddess Sothis bless this union.” Blyeth lifts their eyes, casting each of them a long and unreadable look, before declaring, “In the eyes of the Heavens, I declare this marriage as true. As of this moment, you are now wedded, for the remainder of your days.”

Applause breaks out from the audience, from their friends, who are gathered in closer. It echoes to the high vaulted ceilings like a choir, while the orchestra bursts into melody. Distantly, Dimitri feels Blyeth unfurl the cloth from their wrists, but he doesn’t move. He’s still staring at Claude, who is staring at him back, his smile full of mirth.

“You alright over there?” He whispers, and Byleth snorts quietly, ducking their head away under the guise of putting away the ribbon.

“I--” Dimitri clears his throat and quickly nods. Hands still laced, he turns quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, to bow deeply and humbly at the rows and rows of guests, Claude mirroring him. They rise to their feet, cheering and clapping, lacing with the sound of cellos and violins. From the balconies above and from the aisles, people begin to throw handfuls of delicate white flower petals.

Dimitri glances to his side to find Claude looking back at him, his expression unchanged. Enigmatic, welcoming, and hopeful. Somehow, he smiles back.

And when Claude continues to hold his hand, squeezes it lightly, and he feels the press of their rings against his palm, he cannot help but to look outwards, to the doors thrown wide open. To the glowing morning pouring in through the windows, and the snowfall of petals that drift and shine in their light.

Oh, how the sun has found him worthy of burning, today.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Okay, maybe that was a bit much all at once.”_

_Back in the warm comfort of the Castle, Dimitri sits heavily planted on a large armchair. Their outerwear hangs on a wooden rack by the blazing hearth to dry, dripping snow turned water._

_Claude leans over and carefully removes the iron kettle from the fire, pouring water into the teapot while Dimitri says nothing, stares at nothing, simply keeps his fingers steepled and balanced against his mouth._

_“I brought this back from Almyra, by the way. It’s one of my favorite blends. It’s a black tea native to a region in the far east, made with berries to sweeten and deepen the flavor--all the Gods and their children in Heaven, Dimitri, you look like I gave you a death sentence!”_

_“Mmnh.”_

_“Hey,” Claude sighs and replaces the kettle, then resumes his seat across from the low table. “I know that might have been a shock, but can we at least talk about it?....Or are you going to need a few minutes to digest all that?”_

_“A moment longer, please.”_

_“Alrighty then.” Claude leans his elbows forward onto his knees, tamping down the tea leaves while they steep. “Let’s see which takes longer. The tea, or your tongue.”_

_Leaning back in his seat, Claude lays his hands in his lap, watches the fire, and hums softly, tapping his foot to the tune. He’s unfairly at ease, given the situation he’s plunged them into._

_Dimitri heaves a sigh out through his nose, drags his hands down his face, and lets his head hang heavily in his palms._

_Marriage is what Claude has asked for. Marriage. To_ himself.

_As an Almyran prince._

_His origins had always been a subject of shadowed gossip, back at Garreg Mach. But to think he had royal blood in his veins, all this time, and kept hidden...._

_Proof of this, Claude promises he could provide, should Dimitri take the proposal into actual consideration._

_From afar, he can hear the clinking of porcelain, Claude fussing with the dishes on the table._

_Slowly, he lifts his head, staring into the fire._

_“Why.”_

_Claude glances at him briefly, from where he’s pouring into two mugs._

_“Ah. Sad to say the tea won this round, since technically it was finished brewing before you opened your mouth.”_

_“...Claude.”_

_“Okay, okay.” He concedes. “How do you take your tea?”_

_“I can fix my own tea. Please don’t fuss over me.”_

_“...If you insist.”_

_Claude’s eyes are fixed on him when Dimitri reaches over, accepting the saucer and cup with whispered gratitude, carefully dabbing honey and sugar into the dark brew, stirring as gently as he can._

_Yet when he puts the spoon back to the table, he blinks at the way in which he’s bent it between his fingers._

_Claude goes still when he sees it, glancing back at Dimitri and raising an eyebrow._

_“....Please don’t.”_

_Claude shrugs and sits back in his seat._

_The fire crackles, the wood burning cedar warmth into the room. Outside, it’s begun to snow even harder, a rush of wind sending heavy flakes tapping at the window. Both of them watch for a moment, perhaps mutually thinking of how fortunate their early return is._

_“You have a country to rebuild, Dimitri.” Claude says quietly. “A newly united country, after a savage six years of war. To put it bluntly, you look it. You’re exhausted, my friend.”_

_An understatement, Dimitri wants to say. He has thousands and thousands of lives resting upon his success at doing so. Thousands of lives lost that deserve their sacrifice be the foundation of something greater, that there may be some meaning to it at all._

_“A marriage between yourself and an Almyran noble, much less royalty, might smooth the way forward for the tensions between our countries to finally cease.” Claude suggests, “Our people may have different customs, different cultures...but ignorance is what fuels their fear, which is what then grows to hatred. They’re not so different, at the heart of things.”_

_Dimitri considers this to be true. After all, he has seen how the people of Duscur have been treated by Fodlan natives._

_“You hid your lineage, while at the academy.”_

_Claude levels his gaze with Dimitri. More directly than he can ever remember._

_“I did. I kept my Almyran heritage quiet, spare a few. Can’t you guess why?”_

_“I am ashamed to admit that I can.”_

_All too clearly, and not at all to his liking, and he cannot say he is blind to the contempt that Almyrans invite, either._

_Claude sighs, and lets the conversation lull._

_The tea is strong, its bitterness softened with the fruity undertones of the berries. He’s sure the taste is much more vivid than he can enjoy. Still, Dimitri invites its warmth, sipping quietly while opposite him, Claude does the same._

_“We can help, too.” Claude offers, “Past the roughness at the border, Almyra prospers. With a strategic marriage to make as a peace treaty, it would be easier for me to convince them to send aid. Food, supplies, healers, soldiers to protect your vulnerable...things we have and the people here desperately need.”_

_There are more things that the people need than Dimitri can provide for them. It hurts, but that is the truth. War had torn through like a ravenous wildfire, and there were so many with so little. And with such an enormous country, it was impossible for him to see all its corners, yet he carries the fate of them all._

_As though tracing his line of thought like a pen to paper, Claude continues._

_“Your resources are spread thin, and your people are tired._ You _are tired. It’s too much for one man to shoulder.” Claude’s voice is a soft, sympathetic timbre. “How long can you bear the weight of that crown alone, Dimitri?”_

_“And burdening someone else with this is my answer?” Dimitri doesn’t mean to scoff, but somehow he hears it in his words. The bitterness is quickly washed by his guilt; because he has lived to see today, but so many have not._

_The muscles around Claude’s eyes flicker slightly, and after a beat, he presses forward in his seat, setting his cup down on the table. Hands freed, he clasps them in his lap and peers at Dimitri unflinchingly._

_“A crown might be a burden. But I would bear that weight with you.”_

_“And why would you do that?” Dimitri stares into his cup, hearing how his voice drowns. “What do you have to gain from being bound to a creature like me? It isn’t like you to want status for its own sake.”_

_“No,” Claude agrees. “But I already told you what it would get me.”_

_“Have you?”_

_“For our borders to be open and free, not a battleground. Our people can ease their fear of the unknown, because they won’t be strangers from another land any longer. I want to see an end to this long lasting and utterly meaningless bigotry.”_

_Seldom has Claude’s voice been so clear, and so heavy._

_“There are refugees from Duscur. In Almyra.” Claude pauses, hands curling into fists. “They’ve made settlements, and they’re welcome to stay but...what if they could go home? What if they could rebuild their culture in their homeland, like the people of Fodlan can? What if they could live peacefully together again?”_

_Dimitri raises his head, and finds that Claude is not looking at him anymore. Instead, he is frowning, jaw clenched around dreams unrealized. A tongue afraid to let them loose, should they burn to ash in the flames in which he stares._

_“What if, Dimitri?” All but a whisper. “What if we could build such a world?”_

_It is a beautiful dream. He has to admit that much._

_“...You would be forsaking the birthright you spent years trying to claim.” Dimitri says softly. “You would be losing your country, your throne, all over again, if you were to marry me.”_

_A deep and still silence follows, neither men moving a muscle. In the hearth, the flames sway and spark. The timber crackles, while the wintry air outside sings, snowflakes rushing by the window._

_“...Would I?” Claude ponders aloud. “I would still have a kingdom to my name, wouldn’t I?”_

_At last, he turns to look at Dimitri, long and thoughtful. The fire reflects in his eyes, so bright and warm that they polish his green to shine._

_“Almyra will always be my heart. But the future has my dream. I’m willing to pay that price, if it will bring me to it.”_

_Dimitri studies him, long and examining. And Claude allows it._

_“You are serious.”_

_Claude smiles, charming and sharp. “Deadly serious.”_

_Dimitri straightens in his seat, heaving a sigh the depths of which he hears as much as he feels._

_“Forgive me,” He sits his tea on the table and rubs at his temple. “This is a lot to take in.”_

_“Of course.” Claude tops off his own, blowing softly on the steam. “I didn’t expect an answer right away. You’ll need time to think about it, talk it over with the right people. All that you want.”_

_\--_

Together, Dimitri and Claude ascend the large, curved staircase, leading up to the front balcony. It was where Dimitri was crowned, named king. Today, he is here to present his new husband to the people.

Byleth and Seteth lead them, while their friends trail behind, chatting lightly amongst themselves.

A few times, Byleth has to halt on the steps to gather their skirts so they don’t step on them.

“Careful, now,” Seteth gently warns, offering his hand for support. Byleth hesitates before they wave it away.

“I’m not sure who I should blame more,” They wonder aloud, “You, for having me wear such an annoying thing, or Dimitri, for asking me to do this at all.”

Dimitri stops short when Byleth turns their head to fix him with a look so wholly blank, but so thoroughly unamused, Claude bursts into laughter beside him.

“You don’t have to endure them for that much longer.” Seteth heaves a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It is almost over.”

“That’s what you always tell me, right before you hand me another stack of papers.” Byleth continues up the stairs, jabbing Seteth in the side with a knuckle as they go. “It’s always a lie.”

“I…” Dimitri shoots a look at Claude, who simply grins and shrugs. “I apologize. I did not think it would burden you so.”

“If you feel so remorseful, go ahead and carry me the rest of the way up.” Byleth says dryly, and Seteth turns abruptly on the stair ahead of them, a storm on his face.

“I...if you wish.”

Byleth pauses and looks back at him as though considering, before they turn back to continue their climb.

“Something-something, _Claude_ , something-something, _threshold carry._ ” Byleth waves their hands flippantly, expertly ignoring the disapproving stare Seteth is fixing them with.

Dimitri clears his throat, while beside him, Claude chuckles.

\--

_“And if I refuse your….offer?”_

_“Mm?”_

_Claude is kneeling before the fireplace, tossing another log to the flames and fussing with the poker._

_“Then….nothing. I go home to Almyra, having had a nice vacation.”_

_The corners of his eyes crinkle gently with amusement._

_“It’s not a_ threat _, Dimitri. Somehow, I think my honor will survive the blow.” Resettling into his seat, Claude gazes kindly at him. “If you prefer, we can pretend this conversation never happened. You have just reason to turn it down. All I ask is that you consider it.”_

_Uncertain, Dimitri finds it hard to meet Claude’s open expression. Or, as open as he will ever get._

_Instead, he watches the firelight’s dance on the teapot, the glow along the edges of the cups. It’s easy to have Claude sit here with him, easy to be comfortable in his company. He has that effect on people, whereas Dimitri, for all his careful etiquette, cannot seem to do anything but stir up problems wherever he goes._

_He does nothing but ruin, ruin, ruin._

_Why give himself a marriage to taint, as well?_

_He would ruin Claude, too._

_But, nonetheless...Claude has asked nothing unreasonable of him yet. Merely placed a card down on the table, and asked Dimitri to look at it._

_“Very well,” Dimitri murmurs, miserable, trying to sound anything but, “I will consider it.”_

_\--_

_Two days after Felix’s departure, Ashe arrives in Dimitri’s office late in the afternoon. He offers a quick smile to Dedue before turning full attention to his king._

_“You called for me, your Majesty?”_

_After all these years, Ashe is still overly formal with him. Dimitri wishes he wouldn’t be, standing ramrod straight and respectfully folding his hands._

_The decorum is suitable for any of his knights to show. Not for Ashe._

_“I did,” Dimitri stands, “Please, be at ease.”_

_So he says, but all Ashe does is relax his shoulders by a hairs’ width and smiles, ever sweet. Dimitri holds back a sigh, and goes for direct._

_“Felix gave a troubling report while he was here. Did you happen to speak with him?”_

_“Ah, only briefly. I invited him to have tea with me and Ingrid sometime, but he left before we could make good on it.” Ashe mentions, frowning softly. “He did seem quite worried. What’s wrong?”_

_“Possible trouble along the northern border.” Dimitri tells him plainly. “Felix and Sylvain seem to be bracing themselves for future aggression from Sreng.”_

_“More war, then...” Ashe sighs, shaking his head sadly._

_“Hopefully, that does not come to pass. I wish for that more than just about anything.” Dimitri crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against his desk. “I would rather be approaching peace talks with them, but it’s difficult to imagine they would be willing to come to the table, if they are prowling the borders for a weak spot, as Felix fears. There have been a handful of attacks already. Given Felix’s anxiety in his brief time here, I fear the situation is tense.”_

_“I see.” Ashe takes this in thoughtfully, then raises his eyes to Dimitri. “What can we do?”_

_“Felix requested hunters,” Dimitri tells him. “You yourself have always been especially skilled in the art.”_

_“Oh, um. You are kind to say so, Your Majesty. But...hunters…?”_

_“Indeed. He has also requested that I send him any able and willing youth, should they be inclined to serving House Fraldarius.”_

_Ashe shifts uneasily, alarm edging his voice. “To train into soldiers? To put children on the front lines to another war? Your Majesty, we can’t! That’s--we--”_

_“Ashe,” Dedue appears at his side, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “Calm.”_

_Ashe reigns in his outburst, but only just. He’s especially protective of the vulnerable, but that is part of why it’s him whom Dimitri’s called for this task. The threat of injustice is one of the few things that could make him raise his voice at his king._

_Realizing he’s done just that, a flash of color spreads across his freckled cheeks, heaving a distressed sigh through his nose. Stares intently at Dimitri. Waits._

_“Ashe. Do you really think Felix would throw children in front of seasoned Sreng warriors like lambs to a slaughter? Do you think I would let him?” Dimitri reasons. “He may not be the gentlest with his words, but he isn’t cruel.”_

_Suddenly abashed, Ashe shuffles his feet. “Y...you’re right. I’m sorry. I know neither of you would do that.”_

_“Please, don’t be.” Dimitri waves his hand. “I discussed plans at length with him.”_

_Felix meant to rebuild his depleted household. The war had exhausted everyone’s resources, but the Fraldarius and Gautier territories had fended off Empire forces while also remaining wary of the threats from Sreng. To this day, Dimitri can’t wrap his head about how they did it._

_“And...yes, some may be trained in combat.” Dimitri admits. “I will send a battalion with you, for protection en route and to help defend the border.”_

_The hunters would be put to use tracking the movements of Sreng’s forces, as well as to keep the additional mouths fed._

_Ashe is charged with recruiting volunteers. As many as are willing, so long as they know the risks that wait for them. They’ll be housed, fed, taught a craft, put to work one way or another. Fraldarius was known for its austereness, but for some people, it would be enough to endure the harsh north, even with the ever-present Sreng threat._

_“You know Felix, and you know what he will expect.” Dimitri draws out the papers he’s written up for the official orders, signing along the bottom of the parchment. “But you’ll also have insight to the concerns of the common folk, and so I know you’ll carry this out with all fairness in mind.”_

_“I’ll do my best.” Ashe promises._

_“I know you will. You have my utmost trust.”_

_\--_

“Rather warm today, isn’t it?”

Claude nearly whirls completely around to pin Sylvain with a disbelieving stare.

“This is _warm?_ This is _freezing._ ”

“Hey, not all of us like being burned to a crisp in the desert.”

“Ah, right, some of you prefer to be frozen icicles as a way of living. Welcome back to Faerghus, me.”

“If you’re so cold, why don’t you ask your dashing new husband to give you his cloak? I’m sure he’ll be glad to. He’s a gentleman.”

“Nah. I’ll live.” Claude smiles. “I’m not as cold as your bed will be tonight.”

“Woah, woah, _woah,_ ” Sylvain protests in mock offense. “I’ll have you know that my bed is kept _very_ warm-”

Dimitri doesn’t see what happens, but he hears a soundly thud, Sylvain’s pained gasp, and Claude cackling.

The next moment, Felix is rushing past Dimitri on the stairs with a huff, and Ingrid is sighing somewhere further down the stairs behind them.

“You deserved that, you know.”

“Well, it will definitely be cold _tonight._ ” Claude is saying, quieter, clapping a hand to Sylvain’s shoulder.

“Worry about yourself.” Sylvain shoots back. Dimitri can _hear_ the grin in his tone. “You’ve got some _official marital business_ to take care of.”

Dimitri chokes, clears his throat, and hastens to follow Felix up to the next landing, where Seteth and Blyeth are waiting.

“...You’re an _idiot_ , you know that?” Ingrid is scolding loudly enough for it to echo. “Can’t you keep that stupid mouth shut for once?!”

“Ingrid, wait, _Ingrid,_ my darling, my sweetheart-- _ow!_ ”

“Get’im, Galatea.”

“If only he could ever.” Felix grumbles as Dimitri comes up on them. Byleth frowns. They’re well acquainted with the sound of Ingrid slapping Sylvain across the face.

“What’s going on down there?”

“Sylvain’s being an idiot.” Flushed, Felix crosses his arms and glares at the floor. “Nothing new.”

Dimitri feels the burn up to his ears, pretends he doesn’t, and ignores when given a questioning look.

He doesn’t know what expression Claude might have made at the bawdy joke.

He doesn’t want to know.

\--

_Dedue sees Ashe out of the office._

_Dimitri is at his desk by the time he gets back. Given how long he’d been gone, he ventures that Dedue had walked him all the way to the front gate._

_He has always been a man of few words, but they have been together long enough; he can feel how the air around him has shifted. Subtle as the shift from twilight to dusk._

_They sit and work in silence for a few minutes, and until he is able to summon the nerve to disturb it._

_“I am sorry,” He says softly. “That I am sending him away.”_

_They’re close, always have been. Few can bring out Dedue’s elusive smile as reliably as Ashe._

_“Do not be.” Dedue assures him. “He will return.”_

_“Yes,” Dimitri agrees. “But it could be some time.”_

_There are not a great many people that Dedue spends his leisure time with, outside of Dimitri’s company._

_“He is doing what he has always wanted.” Dedue assures him. “Serving with honor has always been his dream. Now he is. Ashe was the natural choice for this assignment.”_

_“...I suppose.”_

_Plans come into place over the next few weeks. Ashe comes through with almost fifty people to go north. Most are refugees, having fled the war, or otherwise been ruined by it, wanting to start over. A couple of the men and women are already skilled, willing to relocate to Fraldarius territory to eke a place out for themselves._

_For his part, Dimitri has arranged soldiers to guide their way. They’d be placed under Ashe’s command, a facet of his mission that he isn’t particularly comfortable with, but as always, pledges to do his utmost._

_They plot out routes and alternate routes, gathering supplies, send word to Felix and Sylvain. And at one dawn of clear skies and crisp-clean air, Ashe is finishing adjusting the saddle on his horse when Dedue and Dimitri come to see him off._

_Ingrid is already there, throwing her arms around his shoulders while he wraps his around her back._

_“Be safe, Ashe, will you?”_

_“I will, Ingrid. No need to worry about me, really.”_

_“Don’t let Felix bully you, either. For all his barking and snapping, he’s still just a brat.” Ingrid urges, “Tell him I said so, too.”_

_“I will, I will.” Ashe giggles. “Though I still don’t think he’ll listen to anything I try to tell him.”_

_“Oh, he will, if he knows what’s good for him.”_

_They exchange their well wishes; Ingrid gently takes Dimitri by the elbow and guides him to inspect the pack horses with her. He’s not sure what possible input he could offer next to her expertise, but he obliges._

_Ashe’s contagious laugh rings out over the bustle of the soldiers and people. Something makes Dimitri glance over his shoulder, in time to catch the way Ashe’s cheeks flush pink when Dedue gently plucks away a leaf caught in his hair._

_Ingrid is giving him a soft and knowing smile when he turns back. Understanding comes across Dimitri’s face in one to match hers._

_“...Ah.”_

_\--_

Hilda, Nader, and Judith are already awaiting them in the massive suite at the top of the stairs. It was an enormous, sprawling room meant for entertaining, with delicately arranged furniture, numerous sofas, chairs, tables. A series of windows nearly reach floor to ceiling, and in their center, a set of double doors to lead to the equally enormous balcony.

“There you are!” Hilda chirps and immediately floats over to Claude, taking his arm. “We were wondering where--oh, Gautier, Gautier. What’d you do this time?”

“Nothing! Ingrid’s being testy today.”

“Don’t make me throw you off the balcony.”

\--

_Now, he waits._

_Claude had taken his time in deciding whether or not to propose the marriage to Dimitri. In the hours the king spent locked in meetings, buried in veritable mountains of paperwork, and forcibly cozying with scores of nobles, he’d been exploring._

_Fhirdiad was, is, a grand city. Like most of Fodlan, it had taken a beating during the war, but most of its grandeur remains intact._

_Claude had spent his days wandering. Carpenters were busy at work at rebuilding; children ran wild in the streets, screeching and laughing. On the main streets, carts that he’d curiously watched wheeled out of the palace are handing out packages of food._

_Away from the bustle of the busy highways, in quieter corners, refugees eye him warily from shadowed alleys. Husks of burned out buildings are crammed with them, huddled with shoddy blankets and threadbare clothes. He can hardly make it down one street without at least one child running up to him to beg._

_Their accents are from all over the place. The slow drawl of Charon, the clipped gruffness of western Faerghus; the soft roll of the Aegir coast, and the peculiar lilt that came out of Gaspard._

_“It’s awful, isn’t it?”_

_Ingrid walks with him one day, her unease as he leads her down darker, narrower streets becoming ever clearer._

_“This is what war does.”_

_“Indeed.” She looks up at a strung out clothesline, a handful of haggard garments looking worse for wear hanging from them. It’s a dreary and cloudy winter day, the snowfall from a few days ago now gray slush or black ice along the cobblestone streets._

_They don’t say much more for a while, but find a tavern on the way back for a meal._

_“I’ve seen the relief carts and the soldiers handing out blankets,” Claude says carefully, “It’s a nice gesture, but it’ll take more than that.”_

_“Yes, we know. There is only so much we can do.” Ingrid sighs and distracts herself with her tea, hands wrapped around the cup. “Too much destruction everywhere. Too little to go around.”_

_“So what’s Dimitri doing about it?”_

_There’s a twinge of defensiveness in her voice. “He’s doing what he can, Claude.”_

_“Hey, hey,” He holds up his hands, placating. “I didn’t say he isn’t. I’m just asking what’s in the works here.”_

_Ingrid crosses her arms and leans back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other while she’s at it. Cornering him with a hard stare alone. She doesn’t have a single shred of cunning or manipulation in her body, but she knows what he’s made of._

_There’s no way she could know what he’s thinking, but she’s skeptical and smart enough to not give away too much. She’s always been protective. Of her friends, of her principles, and especially of Dimitri. She’s an actual lioness in human form, and Claude has no doubt she’s sizing him up for what kind of meal she’d make of him if he dares besmirch her precious king._

_Finally, her need to defend Dimitri’s honor wins out, and her pretty face softens._

_“Unfortunately, it’s mostly dealing with one bureaucratic nightmare after another. For every fire we put out, another ten seem to pop up.” Ingrid idly plays with a loose stitch on her glove. “Everything’s gone to mess. Without the cooperation of the local lords, we can’t secure roads or trade posts. Without those, we can’t reliably move supplies or people around. Some still refuse Dimitri’s rule, and will argue anything.”_

_“So? He’s king. Can’t he make them?”_

_Claude asks, but he already has a feeling he knows the answer. It’s simply bait. He just wants Ingrid to confirm it._

_Sure enough, she shakes her head. “He won’t. Sure, he could_ make _them by force, and he’s frustrated, but that isn’t how he wants to lead.”_

_“But the longer it takes to hammer things out, the longer it takes for everything to get back up and running. People are suffering for it, aren’t they?”_

_“Yes. All this petty squabbling, while those who need it most are ignored.” Ingrid chews her lip before she goes on to say, “He sees it, Claude. I promise. It pains him how little power he really has.”_

_It begins to snow on their way back, breaths coming thick and white as they trudge the way back up to the palace entrance._

_Days continue to pass. Claude pays closer attention, tallies up the signs._

_Dimitri tries too hard,_ too _earnestly. He laughs now, and he didn’t used to. Still, they’re rare things, and he smothers them quickly, turning his face away and hiding them behind his hand. It makes him uncomfortable and shy, as though joy were something indecent of him._

_Dark shadows the skin around his tired eye, the downwards purse of his mouth that turns his handsome face more sullen than golden, like it used to be._

_They spend evenings together, sometimes, chatting by the hearth or quietly reading after dinner. Claude watches over the top of a book while Dedue gently takes the glass from Dimitri’s hand, where a spider-thin crack begins to web out from his fingertips._

_“Perhaps you should turn in for the night.” Dedue suggests. “There will be more time tomorrow.”_

_Yet there doesn’t seem to be enough time in the day for Dimitri, who sees the morning tired and greets the night even more exhausted, shoulders drawn heavy and taut like a bow._

_To be loosed. To be snapped._

_Claude recognizes the signs of a string yanked too far._

_\--_

_He proposes._

_Dimitri isn’t sure what to say._

_And Claude promises to give him time._

_“I think I’ll take a trip around Fodlan,” He says airily one morning. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”_

_“I see.” Dimitri says carefully, thoughtfully. “I...yes. It’s a beautiful country. There is a lot to see. When will you leave?”_

_“Mmm. I’m thinking tomorrow.” Claude pauses to munch on a piece of sweet roll, spread with tart cherry jam. “Thinking I’ll be gone at least a few weeks.”_

_“Will you return here, when you are done? Or will you go back to Almyra?”_

_“I’ll come back here.” Claude looks across the table at him, catching his eye. It makes Dimitri go still. Very still. “And I’m hoping that by then, you’ll have an answer for me.”_

_Suddenly bashful, Dimitri’s eye drops to the table, where he starts picking a heel of bread to pieces._

_“I...yes. I hope I will too.”_

_\---_

Thousands of people have gathered in the streets.

Excited chatter, banners and waving scarves of various shades of blue, the cityfolk trying to pay homage to their king. Disjointed pieces of music rise from various corners of the street, people flinging flowers over their heads. Most of them are white, but there are others; pink roses, yellow daisies, sprigs of lavender and red carnations.

Byleth opens the doors wide, letting in a fresh breath of spring air.

The crowds bellow louder.

And Dimitri does not know how to face them.

He has done this for them, said his vows and pledged his life to a prince in the hopes he can do ever more.

Because he is one man, and he is powerless, and lost without a weapon of destruction in his hand.

Seteth has spared Byleth at last. It’s not like him to let them off the hook, but he leaves them to step fearlessly to the waiting masses. In a voice as clear as the sky, he’s announcing to the crowds what has happened this morning.

Their king walks alone no longer. Before the eyes of the goddess herself, he has taken another’s hand in marriage, and given them another king to serve them.

Dimitri’s throat goes hard, as though he has forgotten how to speak, chest tightening in quick succession.

The sky is too bright. The noise is too much.

He resists biting his lip, afraid he will accidentally draw blood.

Instead he clenches his jaw, and locks his shoulders into place.

It isn’t a battlefield below, but a sea of jubilation, and all he wants is quiet and dark.

Byleth materializes by his side, their silence steadying, petite mouth drawn in worry.

On his left, Claude appears, passing him a keen smile.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Dimitri cannot pin down the feeling the low rumble of his voice brings out. Comforted, because Claude is good at getting people to relax; at the same time, the sheer pressure of his presence makes him want to flee.

Byleth’s knuckles brush softly against the back of his hand.

_It will be alright._

“...Of course.”

Claude laughs when Dimitri offers his arm, takes it with good natured cheer as he’s escorted over the threshold outside, to the bright white field of the balcony, the stones glowing in the midmorning sun.

\--

_“You wanna come with me?”_

_“Absolutely not.” Hilda sighs. “But I will anyway.”_

_They bid their friends farewell, and make their way out of Fhirdiad one morning as the sun peeks just over the horizon. Hilda grumbles and rests on Claude’s shoulder, and he leans down to give her a kiss on the top of her head._

_For the first day, they ride by carriage, and then by way of a traveling caravan._

_“Pretty girl,” A townswoman giggles when she catches sight of Hilda circling his waist with an arm. “Aren’t you a lucky man?”_

_“Oh, the luckiest.” Claude boasts, and Hilda laughs, flattered._

_“He better not forget it!”_

_A few days of rain leave them bunking down in a small village, much to Hilda’s boredom, but Claude doesn’t mind. He wanders around, picking up pieces of gossip and relishing plates of wonderfully plumped and grilled sausages from the vendor across the street, served with half a roasted potato._

_“Things been good around here? Me and my wife are coming up to see her family from the first time since the war.”_

_“Eh, here and there. Not so bad, depending where you’re at.” The man grumbles. “Crop’s been bad, the armies ate up so much livestock there’s barely any around.”_

_Claude decides he doesn’t want to think about the meat that he’s chewing._

_“Bad crop, you say?”_

_“Aye,” He says ominously. “Some say it’s divine punishment from the Goddess, for the uprising the Empire led against the church.”_

_“Is that a popular opinion around these parts?”_

_“No one in the Kingdom takes too kindly to the Empire or its folk, and the feeling’s mutual.” He admits, scratching through dark stubble. “Too much blood spilled, too much bad blood leftover.”_

_“And what’s the King doing about all of this?”_

_The vendor scoffs. “Still trying to play nice with those blasphemous rats.”_

_They move south, the sky clearing up for good in a quarry town. It seems to be faring better than some of the others they’ve seen._

_“People need the stone now more than ever.” A pair of miner women tell Claude when he admires the ore they’ve dug up. “Everything needs rebuilding.”_

_“That’s what the Crown’s been up to?” Claude goes for a vaguely unimpressed tone, crossing his arms. “Shouldn’t he be worried more about filling bellies?”_

_“No-no, it’s not really the King so much,” One of the women waves her hand dismissively, “It’s mostly the Church commissioning it. New churches, new schools, everything.”_

_“Is that so? I’ve seen nothing but Kingdom soldiers prowling the roads.”_

_“The soldiers are here for the bandits.” The other one pipes up. “But they do work real closely with the Church of Seiros, that’s for sure. I heard the new archbishop is still good friends with the King, even after the war.”_

_That tracks. Byleth and Dimitri have always been nigh inseparable._

_The conversation comes to a close when Hilda pesters at Claude about one of the stones the women have dug up, pinching at his arm and tugging at his sleeve until he offers to buy it from them. They laugh, and give it to Hilda for nothing, for “her spark”._

_It’s a pretty thing, pieces of pale green gemstone lodged in the fist-sized lump. Hilda gives them one of her necklace creations._

_“I think I could make something out of this,” Hilda muses when she examines it later, flopping back onto the inn mattress. “You think Ingrid would like this color, if I made a pendant for her?”_

_“And why are you worried about making a gift for Ingrid?”_

_“To butter her up, obviously,” Hilda coos. “Everyone knows if you’re going for someone for real, you have to get their friends on your side. No idea what to do about Dedue, though.”_

_“In theory, I’ll give you that.” Claude taps his finger along the map, mentally calculating how many days they had left of traveling. “But have you, you know,_ met _Ingrid? Jewelry’s not the way to go.”_

_Hilda makes a frustrated noise. “Whatever. It’s the thought that counts.”_

_“Ah, Hilda. I missed the way you half-ass everything.”_

_\--_

_Three days later, Garreg Mach comes into view, through a horizon of tall, winter-bare trees._

_Claude catches sight of Byleth in the marketplace, making their way through the crowds as they head for the front gate of the monastery grounds._

_He and Hilda have to chase them, breaking through the thick of people just as Byleth begins to ascend the stairs._

_“Teach!....Teach!!”_

_Byleth stops short, and turns quickly. Their eyes widen in surprise, the rest of their face showing nothing. Against the backdrop of white winter, their pale hair and fair skin makes them glow, ethereal, the ends of their cloak fluttering about their legs._

_They stare, eyes flicking from Claude to Hilda and back again as they come up to them, the former unable to hold back the grin he knows would rankle Seteth best. “Remember me?”_

_Byleth smiles._

_\--_

_Their boot heels click on the stone pathway. Through a sparse line of trees, one can see the lake, frozen over and reflecting the clouds. A strong wind sets the branches rattling and snow drifting about their ankles._

_“Somehow, I’m not all that surprised to see you.”_

_“Oh?” Claude studies their profile. “Has someone ruined it for you?”_

_“No,” Byleth keeps their eyes forward, their voice ever even. “To my knowledge, no one knows you’re in Fodlan again. But when you left after Derdriu, I had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last we saw of you.”_

_So Dimitri hadn’t even told Byleth about his visit. Interesting._

_“Yeah? What makes you say that?”_

_“Because you’ve always been a pest, and it would have been too easy for you to leave us alone.”_

_Claude laughs, loud, with his whole belly, and Hilda wholeheartedly agrees._

_“Oh, of course. You know him so well, Professor.”_

_“He’s always liked to do the unexpected.” Byleth continues. “And the risky. What are you gambling on this time, little deer?”_

_\----_

_Not that Claude had suspected Byleth of lying; they had no reason to. But the shock on Seteth and Flayn’s faces convince him; no one else knows he’s in Fodlan. Dimitri hadn’t let on to anyone. Not even in the entire weeks he’d been in the palace._

_While Claude and Hilda stay in the town nearby, he makes it a point to be around the Academy._

_He finds out through Byleth that much of the church’s efforts have steered less towards the religious efforts, and more towards the humanitarian. Not everyone is a believer, but starvation and homelessness aren’t picky about which gods people pray to._

_“Not sure how much I ever really bought into all of this to begin with.” Byleth says openly. “Of course, I can’t really say that too much, with my position and all.”_

_“Of course.”_

_“But we have the resources to help, so why wouldn’t we?”_

_The churches and schools that are being built second as shelters for the destitute, as well as education centers. Sermons and prayers are still held for those who want them, but aren’t a requisite for aid._

_Although Dimitri had tried to extend his hand to many of the old Empire territories, many were still reluctant to take it. To try too hard, to be too obvious in his pleas for peace, proved alienating to his native Kingdom and Alliance subjects, who still wanted to see them burned for the war they had all suffered._

_The Church could step in, citing their allegiance to the Goddess alone._

_“To spread the good word and do the good deed, and all.” Byleth shrugs one dainty shoulder. “As if we were impartial during the war. But it’s easier to stomach our bread than the Kingdom’s, I guess.”_

_But the Professor has always had an uncanny eye. So, about a week into their stay, Claude can’t say he’s really all that shocked when, in the comfort of their humble office, messy with papers and scrolls and books, Byleth leans back on their sofa, leg languidly stretched, levels him with a keen stare, and asks,_

_“So what brings you back to Fodlan?”_

_Even though their face is always nearly blank, head always in the clouds, Byleth is far from stupid, able to read people and situations at a glance. People underestimate them at first, if unaware of who and what they are._

_“Oh, you know. The sights. The people.”_

_Though their expression barely changes, mirth sparks over Byleth’s features. Just a little curve of the mouth, a little softening of the brow. Claude can see they aren’t fooled, but they like him enough to be fond about it._

_Byleth props their elbow on the back of the sofa, resting their head in their palm. They say, smooth as whiskey, “You’re a sentimental one.”_

_“Me, sentimental? Never.”_

_Byleth raises an eyebrow, clearly disbelieving._

_“...How’s Dimitri?”_

_Byleth huffs a laugh and blinks, slowly, looking like a sleepy cat._

_“Okay, as far as I can tell. He’s working himself tirelessly, that’s for sure.”_

_Claude takes in the slight shadows beneath Byleth’s eyes, and notes, “Seems like you might be doing the same.”_

_“Well,” Byleth yawns leisurely behind a loose fist. “I’m surrounded by workaholics. It’s hard to slack off.”_

_Claude and Hilda spend a week and a half in the towns around Garreg Mach. When they’re around, he spends the time with Byleth. He has always enjoyed their company, but also picks what information he can from them._

_He’s sure Byleth’s noticed. They’re too perceptive not to. Even more thrilling is when they start picking back._

_“Say, Teach, if I wanted to see some of what’s left of the Empire, what road would I take?”_

_Byleth answers without looking up from the sheaf of papers that are scattered on their desk._

_“I’d stay north of Merceus if I were you.”_

_It tells him what he needs to know._

_The closer to Enbarr one went, the more likely those still loyal to the Empire would have gathered. Deep in Hresvleg territory and across the bay in Fodlan’s Fangs, they nestle together, licking their wounds and scurrying as far away from the Kingdom’s reach as they could._

_It also fell in line with the rumors of the townsfolk; that there were still people holding grudges against Faerghus, and Dimitri._

_Byleth’s position hadn’t kept them out of touch. Good to know._

_After a few more days watching Byleth fall asleep on their desk and play various games of tag with both Seteth and Seteth’s patience, Claude leaves Garreg Mach with Hilda._

_“Stop by on the way back.” Byleth tells him, hopping up on their toes to give him a kiss on the cheek, leaning down to give the same to Hilda. “Safe travels.”_

_“Blessed by the archbishop themselves! How could we say no?”_

_Traveling west, they make their way along the borders between Faerghus and the Empire as best they can._

_The further they go, the further they are from the reaches of the Kingdom and the Church’s hands. And the more they find Empire supporters and sympathizers, and swaths of people begrudging how little they actually know of their King._

_“Ain’t ever seen him,” An innkeep growls. “Things haven’t gotten any better from the war.”_

_“If anything, they’ve gotten worse,” A nearby merchant pipes up. “No one knows what laws to follow out in these parts, Empire or Kingdom, and all those are up in smoke with the lords fighting over who got what land.”_

_“Technically it’s all Kingdom now, isn’t it?” Claude asks over a mug of beer, Hilda making faces at the dark stout._

_“I guess,” She gruffs. “But what’s Faerghus going to do about that, all the way out here? People cling to their ways, and a handful of Kingdom soldiers won’t last too long in these parts if they get too pushy.”_

_It seems to be the way._

_Dimitri is one man, and can only be in so many places at once. Faerghus presence is his presence, and far away from Fhirdiad, that influence is low._

_Not many people here have seen the new King that they’re now expected to follow. In the capital city, the people know him, know the carts of relief supplies and the public works in progress, and with the blessing of their holy archbishop._

_Here, it’s different. With no face to a name and no voice to a written word, he’s barely more than an abstract. They know him as a war hero, a battle god made man with his noble Crest, who tore devastation through their towns, their homes. Many had family or friends lost to Faerghus soldiers._

_It’s hard to be loyal to a nightmare made human._

_\--_

_Despite the cold, it is nice to be out of the capital for once, away from the city and into the quiet of the northern woods._

_A few days of riding take Dimitri and his guard to Fraldarius territory, where the snowflakes fall heavier and the cliffsides freeze harder._

_Even along the outskirts of the region, it’s clear to see where life is beginning to bloom. There are little villages beginning to pick up where there had been nothing but miserable hovels during the war._

_Just as much as that, he’s enjoying the anonymity. With a heavy cloak and a hood and a scarf about his face, he looks as common as anyone atop a sturdy, practical mount._

_The land can be difficult to navigate, if one doesn’t know precisely where to look. Much of the land has remained untouched, and the steep hills and mountains mean that most of the settlements are not very large, even if they are positioned close together._

_It’s been quite some time, but Dimitri knows these roads by heart, and their paths much better than his own. It’s no difficult thing to steer his horse through winding paths, deep into the heart of the mountain’s range, to the town where he had spent so many winters as a child._

_“It really has perked up around here,” Ingrid notes with wonder and a cautious hint of joy. “Look at that.”_

_There’s a line of market stalls and an open blacksmith’s shop, bustling with forgers and apprentices. They pass a bakery, a butcher shop, and then second; the hunts must have been good._

_“That’s new.” Dimitri notes as they pass a belltower, its base a modest little shrine where people have placed candles and flower offerings._

_“Even if Felix doesn’t care much for the sentimental, Sylvain knows these things are important to people.” Ingrid explains. “You know how little either of them care for worship, but there’s three new churches being built here.”_

_“Three?”_

_“Indeed. Two are for the Church of Seiros, on opposite sides of the territory. The third is the Pagan church.”_

_“No kidding.” Dimitri marvels._

_“And that big old cathedral that was in ruins when we were kids? They’re restoring that, too.” Ingrid points into the distance, where a crown of distinct spires rise over a hedge of trees. “I think they mainly tend to repurpose it as a homeless shelter for now. It’s hard to survive up here without so much as a roof.”_

_Felix’s reports are always succinct and factual; he mentions the growing population, the new tax rates he proposes given the demographics, the level of snowfall, if the rivers have frozen over yet, and if travel will be difficult._

_He hadn’t mentioned that kids wrestle with their dogs in the streets in play, or that a tavern would be so loud in the middle of the day with merriment and song._

_At long last, they turn into the semi-hidden road past a dense group of pine trees that lead them, given another mile, to the Fraldarius estate._

_The building is old and noble, as practical and frugal in its appearance as everything else designed in the bitter cold mountains. It’s little surprise that it carves men like Felix out of its ice._

_Even so, the manor is elegant in its dark polished stone and glowing torchlights._

_As ever, Sylvain’s hair is easy to spot before anything else, but what surprises Dimitri is to find him with a child on his hip, crossing the far side of the yard._

_“Never thought I would see the day.” Dimitri calls as he pulls back his hood, slowing his trotting horse as they approach. Sylvain turns, face already in full, hearty smile by the time they reach him._

_“Well hello there, your Majesty.”_

_\--_

Now that the ceremony and the presentation is over, they are given some reprieve of the performance. At least for now.

They have a few hours to relax and to allow the preparations for the dinner feast and following dance in the evening, and are happily spending some of it with full attention to their friends.

Faintly, they can still hear the celebrations happening outside. It had somehow erupted into a full blown festival, something that Dimitri had warily watched develop as the day had come closer and closer.

“Wow.” Claude whistles from the doors, now shut against the outside noise. “Think they’re more excited than we are?”

“People have been clamoring for a reason to let loose.” Sylvain joins him, peering out at the crowds of people, filling the streets as far as the eye can see. “There’s little better reason to do so than a big old fancy royal wedding. Won’t be getting another one of those for a long time. Probably, anyway.”

“Only probably, huh?” He replies dryly. “That much faith in us already?”

Partway across the room, Ingrid is eyeing the pair of them suspiciously.

“Anyone else get an awful sense of foreboding, watching those two together?”

Dedue hums in careful, ambiguous agreement.

“Like setting two foxes loose in a single henhouse.” Byleth notes.

They make their way downstairs to the reception hall, the one adjacent the gardens. The doors have been propped open to allow guests to wander in and out as they please, while servants and maids carefully slip about with plates of food and drink, platters set up on elegantly arranged tables.

As they make their way into the room, Seteth clears his throat, presumably about to announce Dimitri’s presence, before Byleth catches sight of whatever crestfallen look Dimitri’s face had taken, and grabs his arm at the last second.

Dimitri, holding back a sigh of relief, watches Seteth look at them questioningly. Byleth just shakes their head and leads him off to slip through the crowd.

“Wow,” Claude murmurs. “Teach really looks out for you.”

“Much as they always have.” Dimitri replies, watching their head of celadon hair disappear.

“That’s _your_ job now, may I remind you.”

Claude yelps when Ingrid slaps his back.

“Galatea, do you _know_ how hard you hit? Be nice to your new royal consort.”

“Not that hard.” She chirps, unbothered and grinning. “Maybe you just need to toughen up.”

“Sorry, Claude, but that’s just the truth.” Hilda appears to bump her hip against Claude’s, a glass of wine already in each hand. “No wimps allowed in Fhirdiad. Here, take this, honey.”

With that, she hands Ingrid one of the glasses, who gives a startled thanks, while Claude sets his hands on his hips and sighs melodramatically in Dimitri’s general direction.

“Dearest husband, please protect me from your knight. She scares me.”

“What kind of knight would she be if she weren’t a little bit frightening?” Dimitri replies smoothly.

“Bah. I really have come to a den of lions.”

\--

_Elwin is the name of the little boy clinging to Sylvain’s shoulder, bundled heavily in a wool coat and giving daunted looks at the newcomers. Strawberry blonde hair peeks out from his hood, big brown eyes watching them dismount and hand off their steeds to the stable hands._

_Dimitri has always been charmed by children, and can’t help the smile that overtakes him, watching as he starts chewing on a finger, only for Sylvain to gently ease it back out of his mouth._

_“Cute, isn’t he?”_

_“Yes,” Dimitri agrees. “So much so that not even you can resist, it seems.”_

_“Nope.”_

_“Your Majesty!”_

_Ashe appears in a hurry, bowing quickly. “Glad to see you made it here safely.”_

_He embraces Ingrid and gifts Dedue a single, bashful smile before he’s reaching for Elwin._

_“Come on, little one! We’ve got work to do, and then you’re due for a nap!”_

_With practiced expertise, Ashe takes Elwin from Sylvain, propping him up on a hip and giving him a fleeting kiss on the forehead that sends the toddler into giggles. It frees Sylvain up to hug Ingrid too, kissing her on the cheek and giving Dedue a friendly throw of his arm about his shoulders._

_“Where is Felix?”_

_“Out scouting,” Sylvain is telling them as they make their way towards the central manor, “He should be back within next hour.”_

_“Has anything changed since your last letter?” Dimitri asks as they walk._

_“It’s been quiet, thankfully.” Sylvain admits. “We’re hoping that maybe with the extra soldiers traipsing around, they’re giving the attacks a second thought, but...Fe doesn’t like it.”_

_“He must think they’re planning something.” Ingrid frowns._

_“Exactly right. Part of why he went out himself today.”_

_They sit beside the fire once inside, talking lightly about the travel and news in Fhirdiad and whatnot._

_“The town’s looking lively,” Stirring honey into her tea, Ingrid leans forward in her seat, “And it was so desolate after the war.”_

_“Ashe has been a literal godsend.” Sylvain admits openly, relaxing against the back of his chair. “We’ve had our hands full putting all the pieces back together, while trying to keep Sreng in check. He’s been able to do a lot of what we can’t, both logistically and literally.”_

_The hunters that Felix had hired did well to supply the town with game, while proving to be good and proper spies, of sorts, to the movements of the Sreng soldiers. But it was Ashe who had insightfully pointed out a potential the busy Sylvain and Felix hadn’t the time to notice or enact._

_Traditionally, Fraldarius’ exports had been crafts of the more practical nature; anything that could be made with iron or steel was known as the best. The climate didn’t allow much margin of error for quality, and so the coats, boots, and such garments were always what sold in other parts of Fodlan._

_But there weren’t many people left to do business within the town, and therefore not many traveling merchants or people to sell such wares to, but Ashe had simply asked,_

_“Why not the fur and leather themselves? The raw material?”_

_Thus, they were brought south to nearby towns to sell. It brought in money with less investment, and the presence of soldiers had in turn attracted more people to migrate to the area._

_What’s more, Ashe had the head for business and haggling that, frankly, Felix had no care for, and Sylvain didn’t have the time for. It had helped contribute to the new prosperity that the territory was beginning to enjoy._

_“That’s incredible,” Excited, Ingrid beams, and subtly, Dedue smiles, quiet and proud. “He’s really made something happen here!”_

_“Yeah, so, we’re keeping him. Sorry, Dima.”_

_“You are very much not.”_

_Felix appears as the sun is beginning to set, giving the group as warm a welcome as Felix is wont to give. After some respite in their rooms, settling in for the few days they’ll be here, they reconvene for dinner._

_Over bowls of slow roasted stew, laden with venison and vegetables, Sylvain pipes up,_

_“Oh yeah, also, Ashe’s cooking. We’re not letting that go, either.”_

_“You’re_ not _keeping him!” Ingrid huffs, and Ashe, confused, looks between them._

_They’re in the sitting room after the meal with mugs of hot mulled wine, when Felix stands to toss another log to the fire._

_“Dimitri,” He asks, face severe and voice matching. “Is Riegan still in Fhirdiad?”_

_“I...no. Not right now.” Dimitri clears his throat, shifts uncomfortably, and admits. “But you were right, Felix. He was there for something of me.”_

_“Oh?” Felix crosses an arm over his chest, sharp eyebrow raising in question._

_“Oh good,” Ingrid comments sarcastically, “He finally decided to be honest about something?”_

_Suddenly, Dimitri finally finds the floor at Felix’s feet very, very interesting, his lips pressing together._

_Suddenly alert, Sylvain picks his head up, and quickly, Dedue moves to take the glass from Dimitri’s hand._

_“It’s rather….well.”_

_“....What did Claude tell you?” Ingrid all but whispers, heavy with concern._

_The tone begins to shift, and Dimitri waves a hand, insisting, “It is nothing ominous, simply...unexpected. But I would very much appreciate your collective thoughts on the matter.”_

_“Sure. Uh. Unexpected, how?”_

_\--_

The rest of the afternoon passes in a current of easy cheer. Dimitri and Claude accept congratulations from the various court nobles and guests that go out of their way to welcome Claude back into Fodlan.

Dimitri holds his tongue, knowing very well how some of them had regarded Claude when he wasn’t wearing the king’s ring on his finger, and it turns bitter in his mouth.

But Claude maneuvers them as though he had been here all along. Quickly, he’s in step, smile ever present, gracious with their attention.

Still, Dimitri can swear that at the right angle, there’s a hard edge along the deep jade of his pupils.

Some time later, they spot Byleth back into the room, finally relieved of their heavy robes and into a much more modest set of coat, cloak, and trousers. As they prefer, they keep to the sidelines, finding them only after Claude has gracefully extracted them from a particularly painful conversation with some Count or another who is enthusiastically complimenting Claude on his _extraordinarily_ clear Fodlan accent--

“Good grief.” Claude laughs only once they’re out of earshot.

Mortified, Dimitri pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am _so_ sorry.”

“Oh, I’ve seen and heard it all before.” Claude snorts. “I thought you were going to deck him.”

“It was a tempting thought.”

“Who are we punching?” Byleth approaches, twirling the stem of a wine glass delicately.

“No one.” Dimitri assures them.

“Not yet. Maybe if the party needs livening up.”

“Mm.” Byleth drinks less delicately, swallowing the rest of the Bergliez red in and replacing it with a new one in quick succession. “Well. Let me know when it happens. I want to see.”

“Teach, you okay?” Claude laughs, entertained as they watch them down half of their refill in one swig.

“Perfect.” Byleth answers, licking a drop from the corner of their mouth.

“Don’t forget we have a whole feast to go tonight. Take it easy on that stuff.”

“I know.” They answer. “I’m napping beforehand. It’ll be fine.”

“I hope my request hasn’t...stressed you so.” Dimitri says. “You did wonderfully with the ceremony. Thank you, again”

Byleth blinks at him slowly.

“Oh,” They say in realization, waving a hand, as Claude gently slips the empty glass from their hand and smoothly replaces it with a cup of water he procures from a passing server. “Of course. Don’t worry, it’s not because of that. I just really needed a drink.”

“Or three.”

“Or three.” Byleth smirks with mischief, then stares in sudden puzzlement at the water in their hand.

“....You will be there later, yes? You won’t oversleep?” Dimitri holds back a laugh, while they obediently sip, a little teasing.

“I’ll be there.” Byleth promises. “I--oh dammit.”

With that, they push the now empty water cup into Dimitri’s hand, and dash off without explanation.

Bewildered, Claude and Dimitri pass a look to one another, watching from afar as Byleth ducks behind a startled Dedue.

“Your Highnesses,” Seteth appears, snapping them both to attention. With the most critical part over, he’s relaxed a bit. As much as Seteth does, anyway, the corners of his mouth not quite as tight as they usually are. “Congratulations are in order. I wish for the best for the two of you. Truly.”

“Thank you, so much.” Dimitri says earnestly. “For everything.”

“Yeah, sorry you had to do a lot of the work for me.” Claude sheepishly runs a hand through the back of his hair.

“Of course. It was a pleasure.”

With the Church playing a significant part in the ceremony, he’d done a huge share of the planning and organizing, including the public celebrations. The entire city has been steeped in excitement for the past week leading up to the day.

“Please take some time to relax for yourself.” Dimitri says. “Everything is already done and taken care of, thanks in no small part to your meticulousness. You ought to enjoy the fruits of your labor as well.”

Seteth smiles faintly, subtly fond. “I may take your advice.”

“Even you need to unwind once in a while.” Claude adds. “And this is a fantastic day to do it. Consider it a personal request.”

“I thank you.” He gives a humble nod, and, after a moment, goes on to say, “It is good to have you back among us, Claude. We are sorely in need of capable hands these days, and your talents will be a breath of fresh air.”

Claude might be gaping slightly, taken aback.

“I...uh. That’s...kind of you to say so. I hope that’s the case.”

“I’m sure it will be. I look forward to what lies ahead.” Seteth assures, forthright as ever. “For now, I must excuse myself. Perchance, have you seen where our esteemed archbishop might have run off to?”

“Nope, can’t say that I have.”

“I regret to say I don’t know where they are.”

Seteth sighs. “I see. How very like them. If you do see Byleth, please let them know I’m looking for them.”

“Sure.”

With that, Seteth leaves them. Once he’s safely gone, Claude cracks first, snickering, Dimitri following with a bemused grin he tries to hide behind his hand.

“Don’t look now, but…”

And they watch as Byleth makes their escape yet through the wide open doors and into the gardens, gone with a flick of their coat.

\--

_“...Excuse me?”_

_Dimitri resists the urge to simply drop his head into his hands. It’s a near thing, and he sighs, an unwelcome combination of things blending sourly in his stomach._

_“He proposed.” Felix repeats flatly._

_“...Yes.”_

_“He wants to get married? To you?” Ashe’s eyes are wide as they go._

_“What did you tell him?” Ingrid follows immediately, her shoulders so tense they’re practically at her ears._

_“I told him that I would...consider it.”_

_“There’s nothing to consider.” Felix huffs and sits, leaning over to ladle more wine to his mug. “He has no right coming back to Fodlan after you’ve spent years cleaning up and asking such a thing.”_

_“Well...hold on now.” Sylvain leans back, rubbing his chin, either oblivious to the glare Felix shoots at him, or willfully ignoring it. “Let’s think about this.”_

_“Sylvain!” Exasperated, Ingrid fixes him with a second. “You can’t expect Dimitri to accept!”_

_“Easy, Ingie,” Sylvain coos, “I’m not expecting Dima to do_ anything _. All I’m saying is that it merits discussion.”_

_Grudgingly, Ingrid backs down. Slightly._

_“All of us knew on some level that a marriage of practical benefit over love would be in the cards for some of us.” Sylvain muses, voice gone just a touch sullen to an ear trained for him. “And Dima’s about as big a prize as they come.”_

_“He’s not simply a_ prize-- _”_

_“Ingie, I know, I know.” He leans forward then, to take her hand and kiss the back of it. “If Dima wants to hold out for love, or not get married at all, that’s what he deserves to do.”_

_“Dimitri,” Felix’s mouth is downturned, eyes flickering a dangerous amber glow in the light of the fire. “What ridiculous reasons did he give you for a marriage? Don’t tell me he tried to romantically sweep you off your feet.”_

_Dimitri huffs a laugh. “No, he did not.”_

_With that, he goes over the conversation he had with Claude. About an alliance with Almyra, and loosening borders. More resources for war-burned Fodlan to hopefully draw from. The eventual rebuilding of Duscur from the refugees who had fled across the border._

_He talks about the bridges Claude wants to build between their people. That together, they would be able to reach further, do more, and prosperity didn’t hinge on Dimitri’s ability to be in two places at once while a broken country tried to reset itself, to make sure it didn’t heal wrong._

_They’re quiet, after Dimitri’s finished. He clasps his hands together, elbows on his spread knees, listening to the crackling of the fire._

_“Awfully noble of him.” Felix mutters. “Not sure anyone vying for a king’s hand so boldly can be trusted. And in secret.”_

_“Bold is one word for it.” Sylvain downs the last dregs of his mug before setting it on the coffee table. “But it’s not a bad deal on either side, if this is really his game. What we really need to ask is what he gains from this, besides the obvious. And if we believe it.”_

_“Do you think he was being honest?”_

_Dimitri raises his eyes to Ingrid’s soft and worried ones._

_He thinks of Claude, brow pinched in thought, voice heavy with the weight of his words. Eyes looking far ahead, into a future only he could see._

_“...I believe so.”_

_Ashe hums, fidgeting in his seat, and turns slightly to ask, “Dedue. What do you think?”_

_Dedue gathers his thoughts for a long moment._

_“If he is being sincere, as you believe, there is potential in such an arrangement.” He touches his knuckle to his lip, hesitating, before admitting, “However, as someone close to you, I would not like to see you sacrifice your own happiness for mere political gain.”_

_“That’s true,” Ashe admits, “Nothing will really change if you decide to turn it down, but...being stuck in a marriage with someone you don’t love sounds awfully lonely.”_

_After that, another lull comes over the room, an odd and heavy sort of air._

_As Sylvain had mentioned, part of him had known that there was a chance any eventual marriage of his might be more by design than by personal passion. There is a part of him that believes he may never find such a partner, is resigned to a life alone. But he never quite felt that to be an empty slot in his life._

_He is, he believes, quite blessed already. He can be content with his friends. Companions that sit here with him now, and others who live their lives elsewhere, but whose affection he feels no less when they are fortunate enough to share company, to whom he loves with a fierceness that he can’t imagine as being any inferior to a lover._

_They worry for his personal happiness, and for that, of course, he is grateful. But he is a King, and his duty is to his people first. If Claude’s ambitions are mutual prosperity, has the means to offer it, then he must take it into account._

_“Why a marriage?” Felix crosses his arms over his chest, words sharpening like a blade along a whetstone. “If he wants to work with you, so be it. Give him a lordship and a title and let him do what he will.”_

_“Won’t hold as much weight as a marriage,” Sylvain argues, “Especially if part of the idea is to incentivize Almyran goodwill. It doesn’t place him on the same level as Dimitri, and if Almyra’s king doesn’t take kindly to his son’s proposal being spurned and being offered a job instead, it could get messier, not better.”_

_“...Claude was well liked among his peers and those who followed him.” Dimitri admits. “He has a charisma that I fear I do not. He inspires loyalty.”_

_“Are you really thinking of accepting?” Ingrid asks._

_“Well, they’re about as opposite as two people can get.” Sylvain shrugs. “There’s something to be said about complementing strengths and weaknesses.”_

_“You actually sound like you’re in favor of this!” She sounds appalled, pinning him with an accusatory glare._

_“I’m in favor of looking at it from all sides.” He defends lightly. “It’s ultimately Dimitri’s decision.”_

_“I think it’s foolish.” Felix snaps. “We have enough problems and enough to deal with as it is. You want to entangle us with another nation, when we’re still a whole mess ourselves? It will cause more complications.”_

_Timidly, Ashe adds, “But they would be helping us, wouldn’t they? Isn’t that what Claude wants?”_

_“It won’t be that easy.” Felix tsks. “It might sound nice on the surface, but the ramifications of marrying Dimitri off to a foreign enemy will be felt everywhere.”_

_“I suppose…” Ashe hums, fiddling his fingers together. “But wouldn’t it also be nice if they weren’t our enemy anymore?”_

_“Nothing is that simple.”_

_They spend the rest of the evening on the topic._

_For the next few days, Dimitri ends up talking with each of them about it. He writes Byleth with the utmost secrecy, inviting them to Fhirdiad to discuss an important matter with him._

_He follows Felix and Sylvain as they conduct business. Sees where the fortified walls along the border have been strengthened and repaired. Broken weapon fragments stick out of the ground, and freshly loosed arrows are lodged in trees. Burn marks from various spells spill ash and charcoal from where they landed, spelling out an ominous aftermath._

_In between, they wander the surrounding town, and tour through the outlying villages. There are more people than he had even realized when they arrived. More families, as well. It is nearly as he remembered, back when he was a child, back before tragedy and death had taken so much life from these mountains._

_Felix and Sylvain had worked hard to rebuild Fraldarius’ territory, but Ashe has worked his own miracles, and it forces Dimitri to consider the difference one more person could make._

_Unsurprisingly, Ashe seems to be followed by village children nearly wherever he goes. Almost anytime Dimitri sees him, he has one in his arms, or one tugging at his coat. Ingrid delights in them, as does Dedue. Once they’re past their initial shyness, they’re just as likely to be pulling on her hands, begging for rides on Dedue’s shoulders._

_In the Fraldarius manor, they go over more endless paperwork, make more arrangements._

_Talk about the decision Dimitri has to make._

_And after a week’s time, they start the trip back to Fhirdiad._

_Two days after they arrive, Byleth is knocking on Dimitri’s office door._

_There, sprawled on his sofa, they listen to his dilemma. They remain quiet for so long, Dimitri has to peek over to make sure they haven’t fallen asleep._

_Instead, they meet him with their big, enigmatic eyes._

_They sit up, pat the seat for Dimitri to sink himself into. Resume laying down, unabashedly slinging their torso over his lap, and if Seteth were there, he is quite sure they would be hearing an earful._

_But he isn’t, and Byleth is free to cross their arms under their chest, hum, and ask, “What do you think about it?”_

_“I am still undecided.” Dimitri admits. “I can see how it could be beneficial. Yet, there is so much at risk. I wish I had some...sign. Something to tell me what is right.”_

_“....Well. We’ve known Claude for a long time. I want to say he isn’t the type of person who would kill someone in their sleep, but actually, I think he would.”_

_“That is...not reassuring.”_

_Byleth snorts. “But I don’t think he’d do that to you. After all, that’s what he’s always afraid of.”_

_“...What?”_

_“If he wanted to start a fight, he could do that just as easily from Almyra. From what you say, everyone is questioning whether or not he’s being sincere in his ambitions. But to me, it seems that he’s going through an awful lot of trouble to let you make up your mind.”_

_With that, they turn over, so they can look up at Dimitri. Run their fingers through the loose locks of his hair._

_“Who truly knows everything of what Claude is thinking. If there were ever a maze within a person, he would be it. But I believe that his vision is true. I think he means it.” They say quietly, lips soft around the words. “No matter what anyone else says, it will come down to a leap of faith, Dima. And it will be up to you whether or not you take it.”_

_Byleth, as ever, holds Dimitri’s heart with gentle hands, their voice ever true._

_It is true. He will have to decide himself._

_And three days later, Claude returns to Fhirdiad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was getting...long. Very long. I decided to cut it off here, even though we're not even done with the wedding day yet. RIP.
> 
> I ship Byleth x Annoying Seteth.
> 
> Come yell at me for not knowing how to shut the fuck up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/_lazulila)


	3. Chapter 3

“Your Majesty!”

Annette nearly crashes into Dimitri’s side, just barely remembering herself in time to stop short with a curtsy. Then she notices Claude beside him, and flushes.

“And...uh...your other Majesty!”

Claude laughs and matches her curtsy with a polite bow. He was never too familiar with her, but the way she smiles is so genuine, that it makes him wonder if maybe they had been closer than he remembers.

“It was such a wonderful ceremony,” She beams, clasping her hands together. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” Claude answers, amused by her enthusiasm, “Glad you were able to come.”

“Of course!” She chirps, looking around briefly in sudden concern. “Oh no, I think I lost Mercie somewhere.”

“Oh dear.” Dimitri passes a glance about the room. “I would like to see her as well.”

“We’ll both be at the banquet tonight,” Annette assures him. “So don’t you worry! She wanted to see you, too.”

That red hair matches her well, Claude thinks to himself. She’s so cheerful, bright and sweet. Watching her chat with Dimitri, inviting them to see the new church that Mercedes is helping oversee, he believes she could unknowingly bend anyone to her kindness.

“You too,” Annette urges, attention on Claude, so painfully sincere he’s seized with the impulse to fling something across the room. “Please come!”

“How could I say no?”

Soon after, she excuses herself to bustle off, the curls of her hair bouncing with every buoyant step, presumably to find Mercedes.

Claude watches her leave, and mindlessly comments, “All the gods and goddesses, if only we could bottle that sunshine for a rainy day.”

Dimitri smiles his agreement.

•••❂❂❂•••

More socializing. More meeting and greeting.

After another hour of it, Claude isn’t surprised to see the weariness beginning at the corners of Dimitri’s eye. The muscles that hold his smile up are practiced, unfailing, but the light is dwindling fast from both.

So after they excuse themselves from yet another noble couple come to make their names and faces known, he takes Dimitri’s arm, startling him, and steers them outside.

“Come on,” He beckons. “Let’s go find some people we actually care about.”

There are still a fair amount of people meandering the grounds, but it’s harder to be caught in the open space; there are more paths to flee, among the blossoms and swaying trees.

Dimitri obediently lets himself be led, until Claude finds, finally, a familiar set of faces.

All too happily, Flayn is sitting with her legs folded daintily beneath her on a blanket, Byleth cross-legged beside her, paring an apple.

“...Where even did you get that?”

“Found it.” They say simply, handing off one half to Flayn, and offering the other to them, shrugging when they turn it down.

Partially shielded by a hedge, they’re content to sit themselves down, and Claude can’t resist teasing, “You know, Seteth’s looking for you.”

“Of course he is.” Byleth doesn’t look up, slicing a piece of apple into their mouth to chew.

“And why are you dodging him this time?” Claude crosses his legs. “He isn’t trying to get you back to work today, of all days, is he?”

“No. He’s just a pest.” Byleth answers blithely.

“Yes, doesn’t he fuss without end!?” Flayn huffs, nibbling at her apple. “As though we two are so very delicate!”

“He cares about the two of you very much.” Dimitri tries politely, “Even if he can perhaps be a little overprotective--where are you getting those from?”

“Found it.” Byleth answers again, cutting into a second apple they’ve produced from the depths of their cloak. “I spend most of my days and sometimes my evenings working with him, yet he as soon as I’m out of sight, he starts to fret like a nanny goat.”

“Nanny goat, huh?”

“Nanny goat.” Byleth leans in towards Flayn, until their faces are mere inches apart.

“It’s the beard.”

Then they bleat. Loudly.

“Oh, no!” Flayn bursts out into laughter, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. “Please, do not make me laugh while I am eating!”

“Eating is the perfect time to laugh.” Byleth reaches over, tickling and poking Flayn to keep her giggling, starting in on a very on-point Seteth impression.

“ _Flayn_ , do not run so quickly in the hall. _Flayn_ , your ribbon is crooked, come, let me fix it. _Flayn_ , be careful with that bread knife. _Flayn_ , please sit up straight, yes, shoulders back now. _Flayn_ , we do not lay across the floor like that, lest you take after that insufferably improper mess we call an archbishop.”

“No, no, no! Please! I cannot handle this!”

They only let up once Flayn is in near hysterics, round cheeks flushed and curled up on the blanket. As she catches her breath, Byleth soothes a hand over her hair, and looks back at Dimitri and Claude, clearly amused.

“Anyway, I have to escape him when and where I can. When I’m good and ready, I’ll let him catch me.”

•••❂❂❂•••

_“You again, huh?”_

_“Me again.”_

_Ingrid grins at Claude when he finds her in the training yards. She’s drilling her recruits, and they seem a fine bunch. Yet, she trounces three of them with barely a few steps and a swing of the practice lance._

_“You’ll find his Majesty in the library through the west wing,” She tells him, “If you want, I’ll find someone to take you. Archbishop Byleth is here, too. They were with him, last I saw.”_

_“Nah, I think I got it. Stay with your students.” Claude encourages. “Looks like they’ve got a long way to go before they make you break a sweat.”_

_Of course, that had almost always been the case with her. Ingrid worked harder and longer than just about anyone, and her diligence has paid off, in the shining prime of her career._

_“Very well.” She beams. “I will find you later then, I hope?”_

_“Please do.”_

_She smiles the same way, yes, but there’s a guarded veil to it._

_Dimitri must have found the right people to talk to._

_Winter is still underway, frost clinging to the windows, the sky pale with silver clouds. The magical torches Claude passes are warm, flickering red-orange against the stone walls, but there’s still a distinct coolness to the air, even inside._

_Marvelously perfect tiles echo his footsteps, loud in his solitude. Polished enough to reflect his image, and not even a servant in sight._

_Once he pushes the door open to the library, the tile gives way to carpet, the hallway briefly flooded with beckoning light._

_It is, to his knowledge, the larger library in the palace, as massive as the audience chamber. Two floors of tomes, scrolls, assorted texts and materials. He had spent quite a bit of time here last time he made use of Dimitri’s hospitality, and in a strange way, it is comforting to be back among its dark wooden tables and the smell of ink as old as the kingdom itself._

_Claude spots Byleth’s distinct hair across the room. They look up as he approaches, and hold a finger to their lips._

_He almost asks why, before he comes around the couch, only to find Dimitri asleep, head cradled in Byleth’s lap._

_Carefully, he turns a chair in closer before taking his seat, murmuring, “What’cha doing here, Teach?”_

_“Oh, you know. The sights. The people.”_

_“Funny.”_

_Byleth’s eyes twinkle. After a moment, they turn their gaze back to Dimitri. Slim hands carefully fix his eye patch, where it’s begun to slide up his brow._

_“It took me a long time to settle him down to get him to fall asleep.” Byleth explains, “I’m sure he’ll greet you properly when he wakes, but for now, don’t ruin my hard work.”_

_“Would never.”_

_Propping up an ankle across his knee, Claude studies the king at rest._

_Dimitri’s breath comes softly, chest rising and falling in gentle motions. Byleth brushes the back of their hand down his cheek, before returning to petting through his hair._

_“...He’s so tired.” Byleth says quietly, a little sadly. “He doesn’t often sleep through the night.”_

_At least that is something they have in common._

_Not even the grand old clock that hangs from the mantle makes a noise as they sit in silence. Just the sounds of Dimitri finally knowing a moment of respite, while the candles flicker and sway._

_“If I give him to you,” Byleth tells Claude, finally, “Make sure he gets more rest.”_

_“So...he told you.”_

_“He did. You knew he would.”_

_“Mm. Yeah, I figured. It’s fine.” Claude looks at Dimitri’s golden hair, the purple ring below his eye. Skin pallid from exhaustion, cheekbones showing more sharply than they ought to. “I did tell him to talk it over with whoever he needed to. Knew you’d be on the list.”_

_It’s odd to see them here, like this. More people fell to Byleth’s hands than they could probably have kept track of, if they had wanted to try. But now they are tender, tame, cradling a man who was known as a beast of death. To think that two of the most feared warriors during the war could look so at peace._

_“He really does kind of look like a lion, a little bit, doesn’t he?” Byleth reaches for one of Dimitri’s hands, ever so carefully lifting it from where it was slumped across his chest. “Look at these paws. Massive.”_

_“...You’re a weird one, Teach.”_

_“Mm.”_

_“Also, you’re just tiny.”_

_Byleth frowns at him, unamused, before they set down Dimitri’s hand, pause, and decide to hold it instead._

_“I was hoping you would be back before I had to leave.”_

_Claude sets his elbow on the armrest, leaning back. “I take it you want to talk to me about this whole marriage business?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Alrighty. What are you thinking?”_

_“I’m not sure, honestly. I know that for you to have come to Dimitri with this, you’ve thought it through. Who knows how many times and ways. I trust your resolve.” Byleth’s mouth tilts at the corner. “Even so, it’s quite the gambit.”_

_“...Any idea which way he’s leaning?” Claude prods, prompting Byleth to lift an unimpressed brow at him._

_“Okay, okay, sorry.”_

_Satisfied, they go back to petting Dimitri, who has yet to stir._

_“I like you, Claude. I want you to be happy. I want the same for Dimitri.” They admit. “And I worry.”_

_“Awh. I like you too, Teach. But, don’t worry about that.” Claude shrugs. “Political marriages happen all the time. If we have a peaceful country, that’s good enough to make me happy. We’d make it happen.”_

_Byleth contemplates this for a long while. Long enough, that the light shifts with the clouds, casting a haze throughout the room, while the lamps glow pale gold and sienna._

_Finally, Byleth sits back against the cushion behind them, a hand protectively over Dimitri’s shoulder._

_“You don’t trust anyone. He doesn’t trust himself.”_

_With a grin, Claude replies, “Interesting pair we make, don’t we?”_

_“If nothing else. Blessings to you, and all that, if you end up going through with it. Just...be careful with each other.”_

_Claude looks at Dimitri, fast asleep. A man who, like him, has seen too much, has survived things they shouldn’t have; escaped death while causing it, and had the weight of the world on their shoulders for it._

_“Be careful, huh?”_

_“Be careful. And be gentle.” Byleth pleads under their breath. “Be gentle. You both deserve that.”_

•••❂❂❂•••

_When the afternoon blooms a dusty rose, Dimitri finally wakes. Embarrassed, to say the least, to find Claude on a nearby chair with a book, horrified at the late hour._

_They chat while Byleth takes a turn napping on the couch, ostensibly trapping Dimitri with their body laid across his legs like a stubborn house cat._

_Not long after, Dedue finds them, in order to chase the king to his own dinner table._

_If anyone besides Dimitri and Claude feel the thread of tension between them, it’s not acknowledged._

_Dimitri begs off afterwards to take care of some work before he turns in for the night, to make up for his bout of sleep in the library, and that’s the last any of them see of him until the next day._

_Claude is a patient man, and doesn’t mind waiting._

_There are moments. At the training yard, where Dimitri’s lance work continues to prove his fearsome prowess, long after the danger is past. In the studies and parlors, and at various mealtimes and walks along the castle halls. Sometimes alone, sometimes with company. Dedue, and Byleth, are ever his shadow, as Hilda is Claude’s._

_Moments where Dimitri looks at Claude, intently, words clearly in the back of his mouth, resting on his lips. His one blue, blue eye uncertain, and oddly shy, before he seems to lose his courage and turns away to busy himself with something._

_But Claude is a patient man._

_Dimitri’s free time is still sparse, and if he is not in meetings at the castle, then he is traveling to them elsewhere in the city or in the surrounding counties. He spends hours locked in his office and others hunched over papers in one of the studies._

_But Claude is a patient man._

_Finally, one clear midday, the clouds finally freeing the sky and only to be seen along the horizon’s edges, Dimitri invites him out for a ride._

_Atop their horses, he takes them to a nearby forest to tour its secluded trails.  
_

_“I often come here to be alone,” Dimitri confesses, “When I need to think.”_

_They come across what he tells Claude is one of his favorite spots, a series of small bedrocks beside a stream._

_When he dismounts, his cloak tumbles about his knees, the black startling against the paleness of the frostbitten landscape. Wordlessly, Claude does the same, fresh snow crunching beneath his boots._

_He watches Dimitri’s steps, idle and thoughtful at once, carrying him to the water’s edge. There, the king watches the current carry bits of twigs, dead leaves, grains of sand; Claude joins him at his side._

_“This is a nice place.” He assures, adjusting the hood of his coat closer around his neck. “Real peaceful. You take all your prospective suitors here?”_

_Dimitri lets out a laugh, if it can be called that, quiet as it is._

_“I suppose I do, since you are the only one”_

_“Oh yeah? Aren’t I special. I’m honored. Really.”_

_Dimitri raises his eye, looking off into the thick line of trees, their bark pale, branches stripped of all but the snow that clings to them._

_“I have been doing a lot of thinking since you left. I sought counsel from my most trusted, my truest.”_

_His skin is pale, even beside the gold of his hair; blushed red with the cold, along his nose and cheeks._

_“As I hoped you would.”_

_“Mm.”_

_Claude is a patient man._

_“And...I have an answer.”_

_Dimitri pauses, biting his lip._

_“I will accept.”_

•••❂❂❂•••

Grand as anything else in the castle, the ballroom has been turned into something exquisite. Tables are lined up along one side, arranged for the elaborate dinner.

Whole cooked pheasants and chickens, seasoned with fresh herbs. Slow smoked cuts of tender beef and pork, platters of intricately sliced roasted vegetables. Entire baskets of pillowy, golden loaves of bread, pots of delicately flavored soups and broths. Platters of fresh fruits, jugs of water and pots of various teas.

Wine, from all over the kingdom and from elsewhere; rich fruit liquors from Brigid, barrels of strong and sophisticated brews from Almyra, gifted by well-wishers and friends from Claude’s homeland.

Musicians play relaxed and cheerful pieces while they dine, the room alight with chatter and conversation.

It all seems too much to Dimitri. Too much by half.

Food doesn’t hold much appeal to him, and yet despite that he has been too fraught with conversation or decorum to eat for most of the day, he can’t seem to do much but pick at the cut of meat on his plate. It’s roasted so soft it falls apart at the touch of his fork, and while his stomach is almost painfully empty, it doesn’t bother him.

“Hey,” From beside him, Claude gently nudges an elbow into his side. “You feeling okay?”

“Oh,” Stirred, Dimitri shakes his head. “Yes, I’m feeling quite well.”

“Really? Because you were kinda looking at that pork like it’d wronged you.”

“Sorry,” Slipping a smile back into place, Dimitri assures him, “I simply got lost in thought for a moment.”

Claude’s eyes search his face. Still cheerful, but shadowed. “There sure is a lot to think about. But not for tonight, okay? Tonight, we just celebrate.”

“...Yes. You’re right.”

“Hey, now,” Mercedes calls from a few seats down. “What are you two whispering about over there?”

“Look at the lovebirds sing,” Dorothea chimes, which is very rich, considering how Ingrid has been throwing her shy side glances all night. “Already chirping away.”

“I-” Dimitri already feels prickles of heat down the back of his neck.

“Well,” Unbothered, Claude turns in his seat to face her, arm coming up to rest on the back of his seat. “Chirping, singing, or whatever we do, it’s official Kingdom business, now.”

“Oh, is it?” Her eyes flash, settling her chin on the back of a delicate hand, nails manicured and painted a dark, rich red. “Not talk fit for the dinner table, is it?”

Just as keen, he shrugs and offers, “If you must know, we were talking about cutting the public theater budget. First order of business.”

Dorothea mock-gasps and tosses a cloth napkin at him, which he catches with a laugh.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“No way!” Annette, having apparently taken the threat seriously, lunges up from her seat to lean over the table to look down at them. “Dimitri, you can’t--!”

She yelps as the chair loudly skids from under her, and Felix has to dive from the other side of her to grab her around the middle to save her from crashing face-first to the table surface, along with all its fixings.

“Be more careful!” He shouts, exasperated, as Annette squeaks, clinging to his arm as he eases her back down.

Dimitri assures her that nothing is happening to the public arts budget, theater included. Claude apologizes to her for the scare, trying very hard not to laugh.

Dinner continues, and eventually makes way for dessert, along with tea and coffee for those who want it, more drinks for those who prefer it.

Before the evening falls too far into the lull of night, the orchestra’s conductor steps onto the ballroom floor, her sole presence and the loud click of her boots drawing looks, even before she clears his throat and signals the music to cut.

“I thank His Majesties greatly, for the honor of our selection to provide the musical company for such a glorious day in Fodlan’s history.” She bows deeply towards Dimitri and Claude, who nod their approval, the musicians behind him following the gesture.

“To give a fitting end to the festivities, we will now be transitioning our repertoire for our great lords and ladies to dance to their heart’s content.” With a flourished flick of her wrists, arms held beseechingly with a half curtsy, “As per tradition, I would very much like to invite His Majesty and his new groom to lead us, as they will, together, lead our country from today onward.”

A round of applause rises from the scores of guests, polite but enthusiastic, the conductor waiting expectantly.

“Oh. This _is_ a thing, huh?” Claude sheepishly mutters, and Dimitri holds back a grimace, knowing all eyes in the room are on them.

“Indeed it is.”

“Well,” Pushing out his chair to stand, Claude extends a hand to Dimitri, smile flourished with warm humor. “Shall we, Your Majesty?”

As little as he feels like performing, it is only a dance. The last, he hopes, for the night.

So he reaches out for Claude’s hand, lifts himself from his seat to another round of clapping, and lets himself be led to the center of the room.

•••❂❂❂•••

_Two months after Dimitri accepts Claude’s marriage proposal, they travel to Fodlan’s Throat, at the crux of Riegan and Goneril territory._

_The weather is fair for winter, and travel is easy, the climate becoming more temperate as they reach the border. Dimitri only dares take his most trusted and a handful of advisors along with him, keeping the party small so as not to appear as though he is posturing or threatening._

_There, they greet their Almyran counterparts to discuss the terms of the marriage._

_The king remains on his throne in the capital, but Claude’s mother comes to represent them both._

_The Almyran queen cuts an intimidating figure, commanding the room as soon as she sets foot in it._

_Lady Tiana is an obvious Fodlan native, her natural fair skin tanned from years in Almyra, dark honey hair neatly pleated into braids drawn back along the crown of her head, let loose at the nape to tumble in waves down her back. Her poise speaks to her noble birth, but is obviously no coddled flower, with how she sweeps the room at a glance and sizes everyone up._

_Her first order of business is to greet Dimitri and his entourage with an introduction, handshake sharp and brief. Her green eyes make clear where her son's come from; but they’re more honest, and less merciful._

_Her second order of business is to cuff Claude on the side of the head, smirking widely when he protests._

_“Stop your whining.” She says, her love obvious even through the rough way she throws an arm about her son’s shoulders in an embrace. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”_

_With her, some of the most important political and cultural figures of Almyra. Seasoned advisors, hardened war generals, young diplomats who say more with the words they do not speak._

_For nearly three weeks they remain in talks, and it feels less like a marriage and more a business arrangement._

_Almyra wants a formal peace treaty along the border, and Fodlan’s warriors pulled back. They want to see an entirely neutral checkpoint and trading post established, so those traveling to and from either country do so without the threat of military interference and intimidation, to be at an acceptable state by the end of a decade from its founding._

_Dimitri, on behalf of Fodlan, raises concern about taxes and import prices on goods that pass into their country. Luxury goods are of little concern, but staple goods for livelihood have to be accessible to Fodlan patrons, especially those who live in the area._

_Because part of Fodlan’s immediate interest is relief from the war, Queen Tiana proposes a healthy monetary sum, something between a wedding gift, and the price for Claude’s dowry, since he would be residing in Fodlan after the wedding._

_She pins the golden haired king with a disbelieving stare when he insists that although generous, he would, if he were so bold, prefer less coin and more supplies._

_“You want less money,” She says flatly, “You want grain and harvest? You prefer cloth to jewels?”_

_Folding his hands neatly on the table, Dimitri meets her with a steady eye. “Much of the unrest that we are seeing is borne from desperation. People cannot buy what is in short supply with what meager means they have, and all the steel in Fodlan can’t make the wheat grow from the burned ground any faster. With that money, I would have planned to simply buy the goods from Almyra, which would take time. Having them directly would greatly expedite the process.”_

_At first, she doesn’t move. Under her critical eye, Dimitri does not budge, only letting her see what she likes._

_Finally, she looks at her son, and quips something in Almyran, to which he only smiles and shrugs._

_Tiana casts a prolonged glance at the figures surrounding him. Seeing, perhaps, how firmly and protectively they’ve placed themselves around their monarch._

_“Your people call you the Savior King.” She enunciates it slowly, carefully._

_“For all the devastation I have caused,” He replies, “I have not earned such a title.”_

_She considers._

_Then she shrugs._

_“Very well.”_

_There are more days of discussion, at the table and everywhere else. In training bouts, at meals, politics woven into every interaction. There are recesses as each party discusses terms and details among themselves before they reconvene to talk some more. Breaks to let ideas simmer and information to be shaken and sifted through._

_They talk of refugee settlements and border security, trade routes and taxes._

_They talk on the terms of if the marriage ever needs to be nullified._

_At the end of it all, they shake hands, and bow. Papers are signed, notarized, stamped and sealed._

_Dimitri and his friends return to Fodlan, while Claude joins his mother and her companions back to Almyra, to settle affairs until the day._

•••❂❂❂•••

A lifetime and a half ago, Byleth had once made a joke to Dimitri about dancing with Claude at the ball. Despite their uncanny insight, there’s no way that they could have predicted this, that one day they would be bowing to each other, as newly wedded husbands, on the ballroom floor of the Fhirdiad royal palace.

That they would take each other’s hand, and Dimitri would settle his hand on Claude’s shoulder, allowing himself to be held by the waist as music begins to play, and they begin to guide each other in steps both familiar and new.

Both of them are well practiced in the simple steps of formal dance, and despite no prior rehearsals, they turn when they need to, take each measured step to notes of piano, violin, flute.

“You’re so tense,” Claude laughs under his breath, patting Dimitri’s waist to urge him, “Relax a little bit, would you?”

“Oh,” Dimitri looks sheepishly down at him, “I apologize. It has been a very long time since I had to dance.”

“Kinda don’t think it has to do with the dancing part,” He replies softly, “But you’re lucky I’m your partner. I’ll get you to ease up.”

Unsure how to respond, Dimitri simply concedes, “I’m in your hands.”

Amused, Claude teases, “Takes two to dance, your Majesty.”

Eventually, pairs begin to rise from their seats, joining them until the floor is filled with swaying people. After the first few songs, the music takes a turn for the lively, becoming brighter, more energetic as the rest of the lanterns are lit around the room to brighten the ballroom against the fall of twilight.

As another song ends, Dimitri supposes that it would be safe to break away. Just as he’s about to say so, Claude pivots on his back foot, forcing him to quickly follow.

Blinking, he redirects his gaze from where it had been, somewhere far off, in half a daze, to look questioningly.

Claude’s smirking, just a glint of his teeth visible.

“Not bad.”

And before Dimitri has the chance to ask, he slides the hand on Dimitri’s waist up his back, leading him into a swerve with the other hand before stepping in and sending him into a half-dip.

Unused to being handled, Dimitri practically gapes at him, and Claude lets out a delighted bark of laughter before righting him.

“Nice, Dimitri.” He praises.

“What...what is this? What are you doing?” Dimitri has to ask.

“Just a little something to keep you on your toes.” Claude answers. “If you’re too used to a single set of dance steps, no wonder you’re bored to tears.”

“I’m not familiar with many, I admit.”

“Sure,” Claude acknowledges. “All the more reason to liven things up. It’s our wedding, isn’t it? We should have at least a little enjoyment out of it. Keep up with me, now.”

So Dimitri follows, waiting for when Claude switches a step, letting himself be spun halfway out of Claude’s reach before he’s reeled in again. Learns that Claude’s expression gives nothing away, and he has to pay more attention to the shift in his weight, the way his feet work, nimbly in time with the music.

“I--I’m sorry,” He half-stammers when he misses a cue and nearly slams right into the other man, “I’m not the most accomplished dancer--”

“ _Dimitri_ ,” Claude laughs, “It’s alright. I’m throwing you through loops here, and you’re doing just fine.”

Around them, the currents slow, the music easing into dramatic, undulating notes of a violin, with just the barest whisper of a harp to make it float. The song is ending, transitioning to something new; Dimitri becomes conscious of his hand on Claude’s shoulder, the muscle firm beneath his palm. At some point, along the flow of melody after melody, their hands have slid up the bow of each other’s outstretched arm, and they’re nearly chest to chest.

“Still, I...I cannot be a good partner.” Dimitri murmurs, self-conscious.

Claude seems intent on keeping Dimitri’s gaze, and, transfixed, he cannot look away.

“You’re doing fine,” Claude repeats. Gently, kindly, tilting his head to one side. “You’ve relaxed quite a bit, at least.”

“Oh.” Dimitri realizes that he’s right; his shoulders are no longer tight, legs feeling as limber as when he’s been practicing in the sparring rings. And, pleasantly surprised, he laughs, _loudly_ , the sound surprising them both.

“My, my,” Claude marvels, “How about that.”

With the torches and candles, and the gathering of so many people, it risks being too warm, even in the large hall. Distantly, they register the windows being opened, drapes ruffled as a cool evening breeze sweeps through.

Errant strands of hair tease about their faces, and although Dimitri longs to brush some of them from his face...he’s loath to let go, to surrender to the cold.

“I...I got away from myself a moment.” He practically whispers, apology implicit.

“You’re about the only person who I think would apologize for laughing out loud. And you really shouldn’t.” Claude jabs, and as the song comes to a close, finally loosening his grip so they may ease apart. “Laughter is a precious thing. Besides, I told you to relax, have some fun. Didn’t I?”

Dimitri bites his lip briefly before catching himself, quickly releasing it to reply, “Yes, that you did.”

Hands on his hips now, Claude beams at him. “Not so bad, right?”

It’s an unfamiliar, fluttering feeling. When was the last time he truly did feel quite so comfortable in a crowd?

“No,” He admits, “No, it’s not.”

“Right. Now then,” Claude steps back, gives him a courteous bow at the waist. “We’ve had our first dance. Go on and get in there. I’m sure there are people who’d love to have you to themselves for a song or two.”

“Ah…yes, of course.”

And with that, Claude gives him a wink and a wave, and slips into the crowd.

•••❂❂❂•••

For propriety’s sake, he does dance with a few of the guests. The interest in dancing quickly wanes to what it had been before Claude made it his mission to keep him entertained. If possible, it was even lower now.

So here he is now, beside an open window, a rather full glass of wine in his hand. He only takes small sips so he can make it last, keeping himself occupied so as to ward off any more requests.

Duty fulfilled, he’s more than content to stay here, and observe.

Once in a while, he catches glimpses of Claude, in various conversations. A few times, he catches him among those on the floor, whisked away into the arms of another, for the length of a dance.

He can’t help but crack a smile to himself when he spies Annette enthusiastically dragging Felix to dance by both hands. She always did love it, and Felix very much does not. Yet he allows it, because his adoration for her overrides everything else that would have him already gone from the hall to avoid the fate altogether.

From elsewhere, Ingrid lets out an indignant cry when Sylvain spins with her, an arm around her waist and lifting her from the ground entirely, beating his shoulder with a fist to put her down. He does, but not without a noisy kiss to her temple, and from here, he can hear her groan and swat him away. Sees him set her down in front of Dorothea, how she tries to flee, and how Sylvain doesn't let her go until she's securely in the other woman's arms.

On the far side of the hall, he watches Ashe politely wave request after request from nobles, preferring his seat beside Dedue. He had always been too shy to dance.

It is nice, also, to see Dedue’s attention focused so readily on someone other than himself. Watching them now, he almost wonders how he did not notice, how Ashe blushes, tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. Won’t let his eyes rest on Dedue for more than a moment before they flit away. Always too earnest for secrets, that is where they would be, after all.

Dimitri watches, as well, when Mercedes floats over to them and coaxes them to their feet with a hand under each of their arms, so she can have them all dance together.

Eventually, the noise and the bustle become too much for him, and, confident that he has no one’s attention, quietly walks along the edge of the room until he can slip out into the hallway.

Once the door is closed behind him, the peace is immediate and welcome.

Down the corridor, there’s a courtyard with a humble garden, with quaint, narrow little pathways. The fountains trickle water, glinting in what they can catch of the glass lanterns that hang from various posts throughout.

The rest of the place is awash in cool, blue moonlight, the breeze refreshing and the coolness soothing on his face. Even stepping from the tiles onto the grass helps to calm him.

“Hey, there.”

Dimitri looks down to find Byleth, squatting against the wall.

He smiles. “Hello, yourself.”

They smile back, and pat the spot next to them. Obliging, he joins them, sitting with legs folded, while they cross their arms over their bent knees.

“Needed a break?”

“Yes,” Dimitri admits. “I see you did as well.”

“I was getting tired.” They yawn, tousling their hair with a shake of their head.

“Did you dance?”

“Yeah. I didn’t mind a few, but they just kept coming, one after another.”

“You’re popular.” Dimitri teases, and Byleth scoffs.

“Look who’s talking.”

Both fall comfortably silent a moment, gazing up at the moon. It’s nearly full, and very bright.

“I would have left sooner, if I could.” Byleth murmurs. “I wanted to at least have one dance with you, but there were too many people on your arm.”

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri says earnestly. “If I’d known you were waiting for me, I would have saved a song for you.”

“It’s alright.” They lean over, head on his shoulder. “I kept having to dance with Earl this, Countess that, Lord So-and-So.”

“Such is the life of an archbishop.” Sympathetic, he reaches over to stroke a hand over their hair. With them, he will be gentle. Always, always careful.

Never again, would he hurt them, and that is a promise to them both that he cannot break.

“Seteth wouldn’t let me escape, saying it was important that I represent the Church with graciousness, or whatever,” Byleth says softly, “Even though _he_...”

Trailing off, they frown just the slightest, eyes tracing patterns along the ground at their feet.

“...He…?” Dimitri prompts. “Did he not dance? I admit I find it rather hard to imagine him doing so.”

“Oh, he did,” Byleth says. Their tone is airy, but somehow, to him, there’s the slightest hint of bitterness to it. “With a few people here and there who asked, but.”

Dimitri blinks, feeling as though he is missing a crucial piece. Something they are not saying.

“But…?”

“Oh,” They sigh. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“If you say so, but I am always willing to listen.”

“I know.”

The sounds of the ball are far away now, and now all they have are the crickets, and each other. Dimitri turns his face so he can press his mouth to the top of their head. They smell faintly of pine, and chamomile tea.

“I miss you,” Byleth says softly. “Fhirdiad is so far away.”

“I’m sorry.” Dimitri nuzzles their hair, the gesture so simple but was once so revolutionary for him. “I love you, you well know that.”

“If you loved me,” Byleth pouts, “You’d move the capital.”

Dimitri chuckles. “I’m afraid the castle would be rather hard to transport.”

“Screw the castle,” Byleth retorts, “I can give you your old dormitory room. Practically the same thing, with a couple of adjustments.”

With another laugh rumbling his chest, Dimitri puts an arm around their shoulders. “I will see what Claude thinks.”

Eventually, Byleth uncurls, stretching their legs out in front of them, settling their head in the crook of Dimitri’s shoulder with a sigh.

“You must be tired.” He says affectionately, brushing some hair behind their ear.

“Tired. And a little bit drunk.”

He snorts softly. “Don’t be late for breakfast tomorrow.”

“I’d like to see your kitchen try to stop me from breakfast at eleven in the morning.”

“I do not think Seteth would approve.” He teases.

“He doesn’t approve a lot of the things I do.” Byleth acknowledges. “But he was the one who wanted me to be archbishop, so really, this is his fault, too.”

“Are you really so at odds with him?”

“Yes...no…I don’t know.” Byleth sighs. “...I need another drink. And _you_ are not nearly drunk enough for your own wedding.”

“Neither is my new husband,” Dimitri says, “It would be a bad look if I were to be in an inebriated stupor beside him.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Byleth tells him. “Last I saw, he was drinking with Hilda, and she always drinks him six feet under the table.”

They remain in peace together for a few minutes longer, and finally, the Dimitri admits, “We should probably return.”

Just as they’re brushing off their clothes, another familiar voice catches their attention.

“Be careful,” Sylvain warns, “If people saw the archbishop and the king like this, there’ll be rumors.”

“Get bent.”

Sylvain only laughs, delighted. “What _language_ for one of the almighty Goddess.”

“Trust me,” Byleth says coolly, “She doesn’t care. Be careful, or I’ll tell your sweet thing that you were flirting with me.”

“ _Oof._ Savage.”

“Anyway,” Byleth sighs, “I should also be seen again. You-know-who is probably off hunting for me.”

“I’ll return shortly.” Dimitri says, and with a nod, Byleth is off, affectionately flicking Sylvain in the ear on their way back into the hallway.

As the echoes of their boot heels drift further away, Sylvain joins Dimitri on the grass, leaning against the wall.

“I almost forgot this was here.”

“I needed a moment.” Dimitri explains, and Sylvain shrugs, stretching his arms out before folding them casually behind his neck.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. It’s fine.”

“Is that why you are here as well?”

“That. And, wanted to check up on my favorite king...well, _one_ of my favorite kings, I guess. Can’t forget the recent addition.”

Dimitri quirks a smile. “You knew I would be here.”

“Just a feeling.”

Companionship with Sylvain is always easy. Through his flaws and human errors, he has always proven a reliable friend, with a hands-off, protective sort of guidance. Troublesome as he can be, if Dimitri were to have a brother, he imagines it is much how it would feel like.

“How are you, Sylvain?” Dimitri asks. “We haven’t been able to speak much ourselves today.”

“Oh, I’m doing alright.” Sylvain drops his arms, settling himself to sit on the edge of a stone planter. “Today’s been so full of romance, it’s got me thinking.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe it’s time I pop that question myself, you know? For good.”

Dimitri cannot help but gape openly at him, Sylvain obviously taking no shortage of amusement at his shock. “You? Married? So Byleth was not joking about telling your partner?”

“Well, I hope they were, because that’ll sure come back to bite me. But, yeah, I got someone willing to put up with me.”

Dimitri doesn’t recall seeing with anyone new today, no one on his arm. It makes him all the more curious.

“You must tell me about them,” Dimitri pleads, enthused.

“...Well for starters,” Sylvain winks, “Both of us have a weak spot for the dark haired beauties, it seems.”

Dimitri sighs, and lets it go without comment.

“And, legs for _days_ , Dima. Legs for days. And oh, those _eyes._ ” He sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “I just fall all over again.”

“They must be very sweet indeed, to have captured you so.”

“Oh, no. Sharpest tongue in all of Fodlan, and not afraid to use it. Sweetness is as rare as a summer snow. But, still at my side, even through all my esteemed dumbass-ery.”

Dimitri scoffs through a laugh, shaking his head. “Sylvain, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were describing-- _oh_.”

Dumbfounded, his jaw drops open as all the pieces suddenly click into place, Sylvain once again watching with great pleasure at his reaction.

“You and….Felix? Truly?”

“Truly.” Sylvain shrugs. “Honestly, Dima, I hate to say it, but you’re the last to know. Like, the _very_ last. Like, _everyone_ already--”

“Stop, stop, I get it,” Dimitri drags a hand down his face. “I’m clueless.”

“ _So_ clueless, Dimitri. _So_ clueless.”

“I cannot _believe_ that I didn’t...never mind.” Dimitri sighs. “And you are serious? About proposing to him?”

“Mm. Well. It’s on my mind,” Sylvain admits, “Things are a little dicey on that front.”

“How so?”

“...You sure you wanna talk about this on your wedding day? Seems like kind of a jinx.”

“That doesn’t concern me. If you wish to talk, I will listen.”

Sylvain studies him, his cheer a little dimmer than before. Leaning back to gaze up at the night sky, he settles his hands on the edge of his seat, thinking a moment.

“Well,” He says finally, “You’ve probably guessed this already, but the Gautier-Fraldarius unity isn’t what it used to be.”

“I have noticed,” Dimitri admits, “Your father and Felix apparently do not get along. I’ve seen little collaboration between them, especially considering recent concerns.”

“An understatement. Rodrigue and my father had no shortage of disagreements, but they could work together. On the other hand, the last couple of times my old man and Felix were in the same room together, it turned into a pretty vicious shouting match.”

“That...doesn’t surprise me.”

“I think he was hoping to reign Felix in, after Rodrigue passed.” Sylvain tells him. “Take him under his wing and all that, be able to strong-arm him into what he wanted to do.”

“Felix wouldn’t let that stand.”

“Of course not. Dunno _why_ he thought it would work. Anyway, I had to make a choice. And it was no contest. I chose Felix.” Sylvain kicks a leg out, an endearingly boyish gesture to go with his endearingly boyish charm. “My father hasn’t disowned me. Yet. Officially. That I know of.”

“So...will you marry him, having made that choice?”

“If he’ll have me. Sure.” Sylvain, unbelievably, laughs. “Part of me thinks if I ask for real, he’ll just slap me upside the head and tell me to get lost. Entirely within his rights, you know.” 

“Sylvain...”

“But really, it’s just...it’s just not a good time, right now. We barely see each other some days. Even if _he_ won’t have anything to do with my father, sometimes I still have to go back home to keep _some_ communication going, for this fun old situation we’ve got going on with Sreng.”

“...I see.”

“If he won’t talk to Felix _now_ , how do you think he’d react to him swooping in and stealing away his only hope of Crest grandbabies? If he swears me off for good, that would make it very difficult to keep a secure, joint effort at the border.”

Sylvain’s father is a proud man, inflexible and immobile as a mountain. It isn’t outside the realm of possibility that a souring between the two territories would only give Sreng a weak point to exploit.

Dimitri reflects on all that he’s been told, while Sylvain falls to silence, a thread of tension weaving itself into his relaxed posture.

“Anyway, sorry to dump this all on you. You shouldn’t have to hear about my relationship problems on your wedding day, at all times.” Sylvain pats Dimitri on the back. “We should get back in there, put some cheer back on that face of yours.”

“I did ask.” He reminds Sylvain, rising to his feet. “Complications aside, I am happy for you two. Thank you, for telling me.”

“Yeah, sure,” He rubs a hand through the back of his hair, dangerously close to shy. “Still probably coulda found a better time.”

“Don’t fret about that.” Dimitri assures him as they step over the threshold into the hallway. “About Sreng...we will find a solution. And as for your father…”

“Not much hope on that front,” Sylvain laughs. “Don’t worry about it. I really might just say _fuck it_ and propose anyway. I’m nothing if not a fount of bad decisions.”

As they make their way back towards the ballroom, the sounds of celebration return. Muffled voices, laughter, music. Unconsciously, Dimitri braces himself for it, but not before turning to Sylvain before they return for good, to be pulled apart by its tides.

“I will support whatever you decide.” He says solemnly. “One way or another...we will make it right.”

Behind Sylvain’s careful expression, the emotions flutter too quickly and too subtly for Dimitri to pick up on all of them. A little worry, and a little fondness; maybe even a little sadness.

But just like that, they’re gone again, and Sylvain simply laughs.

“You’re too serious, Dimitri.”

“I have been told.”

But Sylvain does smile at him.

“But...thank you. I mean it.”

“Of course.”

“Now,” Sylvain rolls his shoulder, and reaches for the door. “Let’s see what your new husband has gotten up to, after a few rounds with Hilda pouring wine in him.”

•••❂❂❂•••

It is well past midnight, by the time Dimitri and Claude have seen off the last of their guests, and begin the climb to the residential wing of the palace. Located in the very back of the central manor, away from the more public and trafficked areas.

All has gone quiet and peaceful, soft lights dutifully already lit, so they can make their way up the stairs and into the wide, carpeted hallways.

“Are you quite alright?” Dimitri has to hold back a laugh, Claude sighing and fluttering his hands dismissively.

“Oh, fine, _just_ fine.” He grumbles, still a bit flushed in the cheeks. “Just don’t ask me tomorrow morning. _That’s_ what I’m worried about. Damn Hilda, I know how drinking with her ends, and I _still_ always fall for it.”

Making an attempt at comfort, Dimitri tells him, “Well...there is very little for us to do tomorrow.”

“ _Thank the gods and goddesses and all in between,_ it has been a _long_ day.”

“That it has.”

The walk feels long, yet not at all the chore it does when he returns most nights, in resigned defeat at the hands of his duties.

Usually, he makes it alone, and maybe the difference is the company.

“Am I right to assume I’m keeping the same quarters I’ve been staying in?” Claude asks, pushing a hand through his hair and yawning. “Or are we making like a good married couple in the eyes of the Goddess and I’m following you to bed?”

Dimitri turns too fast and almost walks right into the corner, just barely stopping himself in time to swerve, only to knock his hip into a side table along the wall, quickly moving to catch it as it threatens to topple over.

Both freeze. Dimitri, with one hand on the table and the other on the dangerously leaning vase atop it, Claude with one hand midair.

“...Er.”

Claude sets his hands on his waist, and raises a very impressed brow at him.

“Good reflexes.”

Clearing his throat, Dimitri sets both furniture and vase right. He had never thought about it. Somehow, unbelievably, he _had never thought about it._ “You are...free to be wherever you like.”

“Well,” Claude shrugs, “No need to pretend things are what they aren’t. I’ll keep to my own room.”

“Ah...yes. Perhaps for the best. Are you happy in those quarters?” Dimitri asks as they continue walking. “You are, of course, free to change rooms if there are others you prefer.”

“...Really?”

“Of course.” Dimitri blinks. “Why wouldn’t you be? I had those readied for you because they are close, but one of the more private suites. But you are hardly restricted to them.”

“Huh.” Claude takes this in. “I guess I didn’t really think about it. Can I actually pick my own rooms?”

“Sure.”

“What if I want to move around every so often?”

“I suppose you could do that, if you like.” Dimitri tells him, “You would, however, drive the poor servants mad trying to keep up with you.”

In passing an alcove, yellowed candlelight yields to the soft white of the moon, glowing strong through the window. The ivy outside is a little overgrown, some of the hanging vines swaying, sending shadows across the cushioned bench and the floor below.

Dimitri pauses here a moment, to watch them, thinking. Curious, Claude stops as well, suddenly alert.

“You aren’t...merely a guest here, anymore.” He says quietly. Decisively. “You’re...well, you already know. You’re my husband. You’re part of my house, now.”

Suddenly demure, Dimitri just barely turns his face so that he may look at Claude with his one eye.

“This is...this is your home now, Claude.” Dimitri smiles timidly, waveringly. “It’s not Almyra, but. I hope in time, you will come to think of it that way.”

Claude isn’t often rendered speechless, but he is now. Staring, searching, as though hunting for a hint of a lie on Dimitri’s face.

Slowly, his lips part, then opens his mouth to speak, before hesitating, and closing it again.

With the festivities over, and the two men alone, far departed from its energy in this distant section of the royal castle, it is so still, so delicately quiet between them, that even the air seems to hold its breath.

And it is so very, very loud when Dimitri clears his throat into a fist and turns, boots shuffling over the rug to hurry again towards his rooms, Claude once again following.

“I’m sorry,” He says. “That was rather presumptuous of me. I only meant that I would like for you to be comfortable.”

“...Dimitri.”

“Whatever you prefer.” Dimitri insists. “I can have one of the head servants take you through the rooms, sometime, so you can decide which most pleases you.”

“I...sure.”

There is something different between them now. Claude’s sudden, silent introspection is his fault, and Dimitri wants to kick himself.

“I hope today wasn’t entirely dreadful for you.” He tries, “Despite how tiring.”

Claude looks up from beside him, and smiles again. Forgiving him, he can only hope, though it is hard to tell when the meaning changes with the angle of any given light.

“Not at all. Total delight.” He grins. “After all, weddings are fun. At least, they ought to be. I was more worried about you.”

“About me? I…” Dimitri trails off. “I was nervous. Yes. But...not...unhappy.”

“...No?”

They’ve come to one last intersection of the hallway. Dimitri’s rooms down one way, Claude’s another.

“...No.” Dimitri says slowly, realizing it to be true. “Not unhappy.”

Claude’s jaw works around whatever reply he’s devising, Dimitri waiting. His breath held in suspense, though he doesn’t know why.

“...That’s good.” Claude finally gives. “As political as the decision was, objectively, it’d kinda suck to be married to someone who hated you.”

“True.” Dimitri admits. “Though I have never hated you.”

With a laugh, Claude gives him a friendly slap on the arm. “Glad to hear it. Let’s hope that doesn’t change.”

“...Yes. I very much hope the same goes for you.”

He hadn’t meant it as ominously as it had come out, yet it still prompts Claude to look at him again, expression unclear.

“...Yeah. Me too.”

Then he turns to start heading down the hallway, looking over his shoulder to give him one last grin, wink, and hand wave.

“Anyway, I’m beat. Goodnight, Dimitri. See you bright and early, tomorrow.”

Summoning one last smile, maybe genuine, maybe not, Dimitri watches him walk down the hall.

“Goodnight, Claude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god does dima try.
> 
> god, do i hope this is interesting. it's only a slow burn because i have so much other crap to cram in, apparently.
> 
> in retrospect, i wish i'd involved claude's parents in the wedding D:
> 
> with every chapter, i expose my love for platonic intimacy and affection more and more.


	4. Chapter 4

Across the table from Dimitri, Claude sits hunched on one side, his head propped up in his hand, sipping black coffee and cautiously chewing on some toast. On the other side, Byleth has foregone pretending to sit up at all, and has their head on the table, gone perfectly still since they laid there.

Somewhere between amused and sympathetic, Dimitri merely sips his tea.

They’ve found themselves a small table on one of the verandas for breakfast, the sun held off by its ivy-speckled roof. With a green lawn and lively birds for company, it makes for a pleasant backdrop, except...

“I see neither of you were exaggerating about having had too much to drink last night.”

Claude spares him a miserable glance. “I...gotta remember I’m not twenty anymore.”

“As we all must.” Dimitri still can’t tell which he feels more, so he leans over and prompts, “Byleth? Are you still awake?”

“Mmmhn.”

“...I see.”

“Teach, eat something. You’ll feel better.”

“ _Mmnhhh._ ”

They rouse themselves to stare blearily at the various plates on the table. Dimitri and Claude watch as they pick out a roll from the basket, slather some jam and butter over it, and top it with a slice of salted dried meat.

“That’s...an interesting choice.”

“Teach, you’re gonna make yourself sick like that—”

Claude breaks off with a yelp when Byleth pokes him harshly in the rib.

“Dimitri. We can have venison for lunch.”

“Yeesh. I was just showing some concern for your poor stomach.”

“Byleth...try not to bully him too much.”

Their cheek is puffed out with a monstrous bite, remarking, “Only one day and you’re already picking him over me.”

“Never.” Dimitri assures.

“What a good start to a lifelong partnership.” Claude tops off his mug with the little pitcher of coffee and sits back in his seat. “Anyhow, what’s on the itinerary today, by the way? You did promise there wasn’t a lot.”

“There isn’t. We’ll go to the church for a formal prayer this morning, and there is a much more casual reception that the castle is holding for lunch.”

“Is our homewrecking archbishop leading the prayer for us, too?” Claude gestures at Byleth, who takes the last heaping bite of their breakfast.

“Nope.” They say, washing it down with a few gulps of tea and then resuming their head’s spot on the table.

“If it were up to me, we wouldn’t have to do it at all,” Dimitri says, “But it’s tradition. It would reflect quite badly if we were to skip it.”

“They don’t call it the _Holy Kingdom_ for nothing.” Byleth remarks dryly.

“...Yes. That.” Dimitri gently clears his throat, and perks up a bit. “However, I did at least get to choose the church, if that doesn’t bother you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It’s one of the older churches in Fhirdiad,” Dimitri tells him, “In one of the lesser known districts that we are focusing efforts on restoring. It’s rather important historically to the city.”

“Trying to bring some attention to the neighborhood with a blessed, kingly visit?” Claude notes, approving.

Sheepish, Dimitri flicks his eye down, fingertips tapping along the tabletop. “If my presence must warrant attention wherever I go…”

“No, no, I gotcha.” Claude assures, “Might as well wield it for good. It’s a fine plan. Can’t wait to see it.”

Dimitri cautiously raises his eye at Claude, looking rather like a puppy awaiting reprimand. Finding none waiting for him, he offers a small smile.

“Can you not do this in front of me?” Byleth groans and turns their head the other way. “It’s too early.”

“Do what, Teach?” Claude leans over and tickles their ear, grinning as they blindly swat his hand away. Sitting back up, he asks Dimitri, “By the way, where’s Dedue? He’s usually at breakfast with you.”

“I believe he is spending the morning with Ashe. Felix and Sylvain mean to leave first thing tomorrow morning, and he’ll be returning with them.”

“Is that a thing yet?” Byleth pipes up, muffled. “Please say yes.”

“If by _that_ , you mean Ashe lights up like a freckly tomato anytime Dedue is near him, yes,” Claude answers, “If by _that,_ you mean either of them as gone so far as to say anything to the other and eased all our collective suffering at watching it, no.”

Byleth heaves a sigh. Guiltily, Dimitri fidgets. “We should not be gossiping about the state of their relationship.”

Amused, Claude plucks a roll from the basket, defending, “We’re not gossiping. We’re cross-checking for factual updates.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’ve been here like a week, and it’s obvious they’re still dancing around it. Can’t imagine what’s actually holding them up.” Claude spreads butter along one side and takes a bite. “Dedue’s a hard read, but if I’m any judge, Ashe has got a fair shot. Speaking of, how long is he going to be staying up in the mountains with your famous fox-cat duo? He’s about the only archer in the whole estate that gives me a run for my money at the ranges.”

Pointedly ignoring all else, Dimitri answers, “Felix means to appoint someone to take over the work Ashe has started in his time there. It’ll take a little time to make sure they’re settled in the position before Ashe returns for good, so, depending on how long it takes for him to find someone he is satisfied with--”

“So, a while.”

“Perhaps another month or two.”

“Longer.”

“You think?”

“Felix has high standards. Which is not a bad thing.” Claude remarks, pulling off a piece of bread. “You wouldn’t want someone lax watching your most vulnerable border.”

“True enough.” Dimitri acknowledges, and folds his hands on the table. “Anyway, other than the church prayers, the only other thing is a private dinner with friends later in the evening, if you should like to come.”

“Sure. Love crashing dinner parties.” Claude rests an elbow on the back of his chair, watching idly as Byleth picks themselves up to reach across him to struggle in reaching the fruit basket. They make a grabbing motion at an orange before he picks it to place into their waiting palm.

“You’re not crashing anything,” Dimitri amends, “I merely meant that it is not a formal obligation, but you are of course invited. Hilda too, and anyone else you’d like to bring. Why wouldn’t you be?”

“I dunno.” Claude shrugs his shoulder. “I could see you wanting a little soiree for yourselves without your brand new ball and chain around.”

“I hardly think of you as such.”

“Give it time. I’ll nag the heck out of you. That’s what spouses are for, I’m told.”

Byleth huffs sharply under their breath, jarring enough that both glance their way. They are, however, too busy peeling their orange to pay either any mind.

“It’s not often, nowadays, that all of us are together like this.” Dimitri pauses in wistful thought. “It does make the times we can all the more precious. Who knows when we may have such an opportunity again.”

The shade of the veranda turns sharp as a cloud moves overhead, and the sun brightens with its passing. The angle allows it to catch some of Dimitri’s hair, and turn it to shining gold. Claude watches his brow pinch slightly above the somber downturn of his eye.

Wishing for better days, thinking of the past ones that were all too fleeting.

Still, Dimitri smiles softly when Byleth pulls one of his hands to theirs, squeezing it before placing a piece of orange into it.

“You’re perfectly right.” Claude muses thoughtfully, while Dimitri obediently eats, “Such a chance has to be treasured properly. So, again, you sure you want me there?”

“Of course,” Dimitri’s eye turns back to him, asking, “Why not? Everyone will be thrilled to have you.”

He smiles a little at that, unsure how true that is. He’s barely more than a stranger to some of Dimitri’s circle, and he’s amused over how easily he assumes Claude’s place in it already, when he’s more or less a glorified chess piece.

They have their own games to play.

“Well then,” Claude spreads his hands, accepting an orange segment as Byleth offers it, bringing it to his lips. “Let’s make it a good memory.”

••❂❂❂•••

Located in one of the far corners of Fhirdiad, the church Dimitri has selected for their prayers is in one of the most long standing corners of the city. The buildings are multicolored sandstone and ceramic tiled roofs, faded with age, more often chipped than not. The cobblestones are worn practically smooth from years and years of use, and it’s normally one of the quietest neighborhoods.

Normally. When the king and his new husband arrive to give their respects at an ancient chapel, it’s teeming with people, crowds who crane their necks to see their rulers on their noble horses.

“Yikes.” Is Claude’s simple observation.

Guards and soldiers have to keep the people at bay to make sure the street is even clear for them. Citizens poke their heads out of their windows to catch sight of them, and a few bold ones shout, waving handkerchiefs to try and catch their attention.

“You always get this much of a reception wherever you go?”

“Er. Sometimes, yes. But the entire city has been in an uproar for days with the wedding. I imagine they are excited for their first close glimpse of you.”

There’s an odd sort of tension in Claude’s posture. Not quite anxious, but certainly not relaxed, either.

“You’re not comfortable with this sort of attention either, are you?”

“Yeah,” Claude drawls, “You could say that.”

Once they make it inside, it’s much more tranquil. Despite the excitement, people show more respect for the church, and not nearly as many people are permitted in at one time Still, the pews are filled with those lucky enough to have squeezed in before their arrival.

Claude glances around, remarking, “It’s a fine choice, Dimitri.”

Perhaps because of its age, the building inside brims with years of wisdom held within its walls. Iron cast lanterns hang from dark wooden buttresses, swaying gently with the slight drafts.

Most of the light comes from a large rose window of frosted white glass, raised high for the heavens and washing the whole place in a soft fog. He’s willing to bet many children have fallen asleep in these creaking wooden benches.

The prayers themselves don’t take long. It’s a tradition in Fodlan that the couple visit their church for another blessing the day after the ceremony. The original implication is that after spending the night together, they seek the Goddess’ blessing unto the marriage after the consummation, in the hopes of a continued, benevolent union. There were also prayers asking for happy, healthy children.

Past the partnership itself, neither apply to them, all things considered.

More common nowadays, is the concept of renewing their pledge in private, without so many eyes on them. More solemn than the ceremony, which was a celebration. It’s meant to be more reflective, praying for strength and success in the marital bond.

Although the private part didn’t seem too much of a thing either, considering they are very much not alone.

Still, they kneel on the benches before the nun, clasp their hands, and repeat their prayers. They’re given a moment to silently offer their own, while she twists rosary beads between her fingers and chants softly. Incense curls wispy strands of smoke, of lavender and frankincense.

Their rings shine in today’s light as they had in yesterday’s.

Soon enough, the nun finishes reciting the scriptures, officially announces her blessing unto them. They bow in formal gratitude, and then the service is completed. The head priest thanks them for the honor of choosing their church as they shake hands and thank him for the hospitality. Clearly, it had gone according to Dimitri’s plan and attracted people to a less central area of the city; people are still cramming the church as they leave, and the return trip proves just as chaotic as the one there.

To be back in the royal estate is a relief, with blissfully little to do until they must prepare for the lunch reception. Byleth remains Dimitri’s shadow for the morning, laying about next to him in the parlor while he goes over some light paperwork in one of the sunlit parlors, dozing on his leg.

Hilda arrives to steal Claude away for herself, where she marvels at his new ring in private, while fussing over his outfit and fixings for the reception.

Dedue appears to check on Dimitri, who by this point is more than asleep than awake, with Byleth curled up against his side. Both shake themselves awake to get ready. Dimitri changes into formalwear, whereas Byleth merely washes their face, runs a hand through their hair, and concludes themselves fine.

Today’s reception is much less stiff than the official one following the ceremony yesterday. More of the guests have brought their children, so they play in the courtyard and tumble over the grass while the adults pick at small, delicate plates and chat.

As such, it’s a while before Dimitri even spots Claude, who catches sight of him mid-conversation and acknowledges him with a smile before returning to the discussion.

It is odd, to see him through a parting in a crowd, and think, _my husband_.

But that’s what he is, forevermore.

•••❂❂❂•••

As expected, Byleth and Dimitri appear together. His height makes him difficult to miss, if the way people automatically clear out of his way doesn’t.

A servant happens by and graciously offers them drinks, both gently taking a glass from the polished silver tray. From here, Claude can make their smiling lips giving shape to their gratitude.

They stay together as they walk, chatting leisurely. Relaxed.

It’s nice that he can so easily trust a drink handed to him by someone he doesn’t know.

He watches Byleth wait until Dimitri’s not looking, before dumping their wine into his glass, and sneaks a cup of water instead.

He makes small talk with a few lords, here and there, carefully picking at delicately flavored appetizers, joking and laughing while his ears are kept open.

Many of the nobles, he gathers, were touched by the war in some fashion, as everyone had been. Few actually saw its horrors. Those are the ones that declare Dimitri a valiant hero, a king beyond compare. He had led his armies with grace and poise, wielded his mighty weapon in defense of his people. Nothing short of a legend come alive, _Your Majesty_ , and yes, yes, he and Claude are a fine match, a comrade in arms both on and off the battlefield.

Claude gracefully excuses himself from another conversation, citing the need to find his magnificent husband.

...There’s no dignity in a death on bloodsoaked soil. No solace in the _brave sacrifice_ , when you hold a dying friend in your arms for the last time.

Nonetheless, he wanders among the crowd, thinking of how Dimitri must smile and nod at the people praising the carnage on his hands. It’s cruel for Dimitri to have to hear such things, knowing that he would give anything to have avoided it all.

He’s gotta hate it.

Filing the thought away for later, Claude does spot someone he wants to talk to. Picking two glasses of white wine from a banquet table, he makes his way over to a surprisingly alone Duke Fraldarius.

Felix looks up far before Claude has reached him, watching unflinchingly as he draws near. His amber eyes go cold and guarded beneath his tense brow.

“Hey there, Sunshine. What are you doing here, all by your lonesome?” Claude offers one of the glasses. Felix’s gaze flickers to the wine.

Claude watches the lightning-fast battle between courtesy and annoyance, before he accepts the drink in sword-calloused hands.

“Some of us actually enjoy quiet.”

Oh, he’s _daring._

“Quiet, huh?” Claude shifts further beside him, their backs facing the wall as they survey the field of socialite merrymaking.

At first, Felix doesn’t say anything after that. But Claude senses his irritation climbing as quickly as an ivy vine. Waiting him out isn’t hard, at least.

“Out with it. What do you want?”

“Why does everyone always assume I _want_ something from them?” Claude mocks offense, clutching a hand to his chest, innocently widening his eyes so he can better catch how Felix’s hackles rise, even as his glare hardens. “Maybe I just enjoy your company. Didja ever consider _that?_ ”

Unmoved, Felix _tsks_.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t hear that very often, do you?”

Maybe if they were closer, Felix would smirk at him, but as it is, he gives Claude a look that says he’s wondering _how_ bad regicide in broad daylight really is.

“Easy, kitten. Put the claws away, I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Prove it.”

“And how would you like me to do that?”

“Stop playing niceties for once. Try being upfront.” Felix shifts his weight so he can face Claude better, his free hand coming to rest on his waist.

“Upfront, huh? Sure, I can try.” Claude takes a leisurely drink from his glass. “What would you like me to be upfront about?”

“Why are we talking right now?”

“Why? Well, you must surely realize that we are going to be working closely together, from now on. And yet, we don’t know each other very well. The last time we talked one-on-one, was all the way back when you came to visit Dimitri.”

Felix grunts softly, which Claude assumes to be grudging acknowledgement.

“And I’m betting,” Claude feigns thoughtfulness, stroking his chin, “That as soon as you got to Dimitri’s office, the first thing you did was demand to know what I was doing there and to warn him not to let his guard down.”

“You’re right. That’s exactly what I did.” Felix says. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, it’s very important who Dimitri keeps around him, and who has his ear. I think it’s fortunate that he has someone as straightforward as you in his trust, and very unfortunate that your attention is very occupied elsewhere at the moment.”

“Someone has to be, and I don’t think you will.”

It’s a brazen accusation. Claude smiles, watching the wine in his glass tilt with a bend of his wrist.

“You don’t quite trust me.”

“No. Not yet.”

“What could you possibly think I’m planning?”

“I don’t know.” Felix leans his back against the wall, crossing his arm over his chest to nestle a gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. “But he’s always been both too trusting, and too forgiving.”

A moment passes, the chatter of the crowd light, chiming along with the silverware and plates.

“...You’re protective of him. You’re all so very protective of each other, but it’s a little different for you two, isn’t it?” Claude notes with amusement as Felix bristles even further. “But it’s still why I think you’d be good for him to have around.”

“Oh? Even with me suspecting you?”

“You say that like that’s anything new to me.” Claude murmurs, gaze forward and distant. The weight of feline-sharp eyes sends prickles up the back of his neck, but he ignores it.

“Look, I get it. You want me to prove myself through action, and not sweet talk. That’s fine. I’ll do that in time.” Claude turns to meet his eyes. “Still, I know he’s happy that you’re here. Even though you’re probably nervous to be away, what with Sreng nipping at your heels.”

Felix greets his smile with tense consideration, and says nothing.

“Before all that started kicking up, it seems like you and Sylvain were a lot more involved with the court, and with Fodlan’s reconstruction. I’m sure that your absences are part of why this place is hurting so bad, and especially Dimitri…hey, can you stop looking at me like I’m your dinner? I’m just saying it’d be nice if he had people around who understand him better than I do.”

Felix’s brow furrows. “You’re the one who married that beast. Start figuring him out.”

“...That’s an interesting way to refer to a longtime friend.”

Felix shrugs his shoulders. “He knows very well what I think of him.”

“I’m sure you make sure he does.” Claude smirks and leans back against the wall with him, bringing them level. “You’re so honest, it’s _boring._ ”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Felix _snorts_.

“You prefer trickery and mind games?” Unbelievably, there’s maybe the slightest bit of humor in his tone, even if it is dry as tinder.

“Keeps things interesting.”

“I have as little patience for that as I do empty words.”

“And that’s next to none.”

“Look at that. You’re already learning.”

“Is that _praise_ I hear?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Felix replies briskly. “ _Listen._ I’m not Dimitri’s keeper. That’s your responsibility as his wedded partner, as much as Fodlan’s future now is. And you need to handle them with care, being that you’ve gone and wedged yourself in the way of both.”

As Claude brings the glass to his lips, he swills the words in his mind as he does the wine over his tongue. Tart, keen, honest. Besides him, Felix finishes off his glass, and pushes off the wall.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a different idiot to go chase down.”

“Of course. Thank you, for the company.”

Pausing to look back at him, Felix studies his expression, trying to decipher any hint of mockery or dishonesty.

Claude’s smile is as unlayered as he can make it, still picked clean by a dissecting stare.

Then Felix gives him the slightest smirk, a little corner of white canine glinting in the corner of a sharp mouth.

“Nice to make your formal acquaintance, Your Majesty. Ah. And one more thing, Riegan?”

“Mm?”

“Call me _kitten_ ever again and I make Dimitri a mourning widower.”

Claude laughs.

“Noted.”

•••❂❂❂•••

Later that night, he reflects just how interesting a phenomenon it is that such opposites attract.

“So,” Sylvain drawls suggestively, leaning leisurely into Claude’s space, “How was _your_ night last night?”

“What a way to start a conversation.” Ingrid mutters from across the table, where she’s just settling into her seat.

In return, Claude sets his elbows on the table and leans in towards him, a smile playing across his mouth. “Oh, _very_ enjoyable. I’m willing to bet it was better than yours.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Sylvain purrs, “I’ll have you know, that upon returning to the room, I—”

“Finish that sentence,” Felix warns, unphased, “And I will gut you like a fish and serve you on a platter along with the rest of the dinner.”

“—I went straight to bed. Slept like a log.”

“Fantastic.” Claude sits back. “We’ll call this bet a draw, then.”

“You could barely sit up this morning from the state Hilda put you in last night. Does that count for anything?” Dimitri offers.

“I—Dimitri, you’re not supposed to tell him that part.” Claude lets out a surprised, sheepish laugh, while Dimitri innocently takes a sip of water. Sylvain grins like a wolf found a meal.

The walls of this dining room are painted a deep burgundy, richly lit with warm magic lamps from above. Outside, the horizon still glows orange, the sky overhead blooming indigo, the window pulled open to allow in the evening spring breeze.

It bids the candle flames to dance and flicker in their golden holders along the table, between plates and glasses, silverware clinking and voices chiming.

“Claude’s questionable sobriety aside—“

“Hey, I’m just fine _now—”_

“It is good to have all of you here.” Dimitri addresses the group at large. “It’s nothing short of a blessing that we’re able to spend at least this one evening together, without all the fanfare and formality.”

“Yeah, Claude really hogged you yesterday, didn’t he?” Annette teases, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, can’t imagine why,” Mercedes chimes beside her in false innocence, “I’m glad you decided to share him with us today, though.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Claude teases back, “If you wanted him all to yourself, you should have married him when you had the chance.”

“Well, you’ve got me there.” She giggles behind her hand, and leans over to tell Byleth in a stage whisper, “It looks like you have some strong competition for Dimitri’s attention.”

Byleth glances up, looks at Claude, and then remarks as they pour themselves some wine, “He can have Dimitri when I’m not here.”

Claude snorts. “How generous.”

Hiding the smile behind the lip of his glass, Dimitri contents himself listening to their banter, until Annette leans over the table to look at him, in a frightening replay of yesterday’s almost-incident, and reminds him, “Don’t forget! You both promised you’d come see Mercie’s church, though!”

“That I did.” Dimitri assures. “We will find a time.”

“You’d better.” She fake-scolds, nothing but determined cheer in her, “Even Felix and Sylvain visited with me.”

“After you badgered us relentlessly about it.” Felix notes gruffly.

“As if you hated it so much.” Affronted, she reaches over to flick a lock of hair out of his face, huffing while he wrinkles his nose, leaning back into his seat and out of her reach. “Sylvain, pinch him for me.”

“Touch me, and die.”

“Funny, because _normally_ —” 

“Oh _for heaven’s sake_ ,” Ingrid slams her palms down on the table, rattling the plates. “Can you _not,_ Sylvain? Please? Just for the length of one meal, please? _Please?_ Don’t be crass.”

“For you, love, anything.” Sylvain laughs as she points a fork threateningly towards him before stabbing it into her chicken.

“Must you find a new, insufferable way to be shameless now that you’ve stopped philandering?” She scowls. “I was hoping that would be the end of your embarrassing behavior.”

“But then, Ingrid, my darling, how would I get my fill of your yelling at me in the precious little time we have together nowadays? One does start to miss it.”

“Don’t you get _tired_ of being yelled at?” Annette asks, unamused.

“He doesn’t.” Ashe confirms helpfully, “If it’s not Ingrid, it’s Felix—don’t look at me like that, I didn’t say he doesn’t deserve it!”

“Wow, harsh. All of you.” Sylvain shakes his head. “Dimitri, must I beg for some backup here? I’m being ganged up on. Even Ashe is bullying me.”

Suddenly addressed, Dimitri blinks, pauses for a beat, and offers, “Well...Sylvain, fond as I am of you, I’m not quite sure what to say in your defense.”

Beside him, Claude breaks into a laugh mid-bite and hides his mouth behind a napkin.

“Wow, Dimitri. _Wow.”_

Despite the teasing, the overlying affection for each other is clear. It’s a nice thing to witness. Claude sneaks a glance in Dimitri’s direction. It’s quite possibly the happiest he’s seen him so far. He’s hardly stopped smiling since they sat down.

“Stop making lovey-dovey eyes at Dimitri and pass me the quiche.” Byleth says wryly.

“Ohhhh, was he?! Hey, I didn’t see!” Annette’s attention is immediately captured and, unfortunately, so is everyone else’s.

“Hey, hey, _hey_ , I was doing no such thing.” Claude insists with a finger pointed sternly in Byleth’s direction, even as he passes them the plate.

“Did we miss a romance budding right before our eyes?” Ingrid snickers, and Dimitri simply sighs.

“There is nothing to miss.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Mercedes claps her hands together in sudden, wistful realization. There’s a beat of silent anticipation, and then she declares, “You didn’t kiss for your ceremony!”

“Oh, _heavens above_ —”

“Not everyone does that, and I have _no_ desire to see it.” Felix snips.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss!”

“Oh, yes!” Hilda chirps, “You gotta, Claude!”

“I don’t _gotta_ do _anything_ , and I cannot believe you’d betray me in this way. Well, maybe I can. But still.”

“You’re such a _baby._ ”

“Kiss him in my place, if you want to so badly. You have my full permission.”

“...Pardon, but she doesn’t have _mine_.”

“What?!” Holding back a wicked smirk in favor of acting insulted, Hilda pouts at Dimitri, “Excuse me, but I am _perfectly lovely_ , and you shouldn’t give up the chance to kiss a beautiful lady like me.”

Dimitri clears his throat, starting to turn red at the ears. “Nonetheless, I am humbly declining.”

“Oh, but the kiss is _very_ important.” Mercedes insists, positively glittering with mischief. “It’s a promise in and of itself!”

“Er,” Dimitri, clearly out of his depths with even her harmless cunning, grasps for words, “I...it’s not necessary.”

“Of _course_ it is,” Annette purrs, falling quickly in line with her ever partner-in-crime, “You know, _you may now kiss to show your bond as true—_ ”

“ _Enough_ . It’s pointless. None of it really _means_ anything.”

“Gosh, you’re really no fun at all, Felix. As _usual._ ”

“This isn’t fun, this is _stupid._ ”

The conversation comes to a halt when Byleth abruptly rises, takes Dimitri’s face in their hands, and plants a loud, smacking kiss onto his forehead before sitting back down to deafening silence, and picking up their cutlery.

“Dimitri’s been kissed. All of you stop the racket and eat your dinner.”

Leave it to Byleth to find a way to deflect. Dimitri’s cheeks have turned apple-red, and his eye refuses to land everywhere but on Claude.

“Thank you.” He says quietly under his breath, now that the conversation has moved on from him, and Byleth simply gives him a smile.

Thankfully, the rest of the dinner passes with much less emphasis on the newlyweds. There’s still much more playful jabbing to be had, between their catching up.

Annette proudly talks about her students at the magic academy, where she works as an instructor. Likewise, Ingrid has good things to say about the recruits she and Dedue have been training.

Candles burn low by the time Mercedes brings out a tall, lidded basket, opening it to reveal a beautifully decorated two-layer cake. A mildly sweet chocolate, topped with syrupy strawberries and piped with neat, delicate swirls of icing as meticulously perfect as her embroidery.

She’s brought a second basket for Dimitri and Claude, packed with pastries and cookies, to tide them over in her impending absence. Annette steals three before Mercedes promises to leave her with even more before she leaves.

Sylvain and Felix take their leaves first, being that they’ll be leaving by the light of dawn tomorrow. Ingrid promises to see them off, even though she stands to give them each a hug long enough to make Felix squirm in her loving grasp, and she growls at Sylvain’s purposefully sloppy kisses to her cheeks and forehead.

And because he has to be sure to be the biggest menace in the room, he does the same to Dimitri, whose hand is still out for the handshake he had gone for instead, gone still with resignation, and ignoring the chorus of uproarious laughter around him.

“Love you, Dima.”

“...Goodnight, Sylvain.”

Felix drags him off after that, Dimitri and Ingrid wipe their faces as they resume their seats.

“Please tell me he’s not always that insufferable when he’s home.” Despite her grumbling, it’s well known that if she’d wanted, Ingrid could’ve easily decked him across the room.

Ashe chuckles and pours himself some more water. “I think he’s just as excited as the rest of us to be here. He’s actually very diligent about his responsibilities.”

“I have to say,” Dimitri, the mystery cleared now that he knows the truth of it, “He does seem much...happier than he used to be. More at ease.”

Ashe smiles wider at that, and shrugs, leaving it unsaid.

“I must also ask, how long have they been together? How did I not know?”

“Were they supposed to make a formal announcement about it?” Claude ribs.

“No, I just...I didn’t realize.”

“Ah, well,” Ashe supplies helpfully, “They weren’t very open about it. Things are complicated, with rebuilding and the tension with Sreng and all. And you know how private Felix is. I suspected for a while, but wasn’t sure until last summer, to be honest. As for when they became _official_...I don’t know about that.”

“I was _forced_ to know.” Ingrid says bitterly, downing the rest of her white wine. “I had the utter joy of walking in on them.”

“ _Ew!”_ Hilda makes a face and Annette covers her mouth with her hands, aghast, Mercedes giggling next to her.

“...Walking in on them—” Dimitri coughs sharply into his fist.

“Holy _hell_ ,” Claude laughs, loudly and unabashedly, “Galatea, I am so very sorry. That’s not how _anyone_ should find that out. Especially about their friends.”

“What were you doing walking into someone’s bedroom without permission?” Dimitri says shakily, and Ingrid levels him with a haunted stare.

“Dimitri. It _wasn’t_ in their bedroom.”

Dimitri’s jaw drops. Claude _howls_ with laughter and leans over, begging, “Ingrid. Ingrid. _Where_ did you find them? You _have_ to tell me.”

“I don’t want to know this!” Annette insists loudly and Hilda, quickly over her disgust in favor of gossip, leans in with Claude, balancing on his shoulder.

“Hang on, I do!”

For the sake of discretion, Ingrid walks around the table and cups her hand around her mouth to whisper into their ears, sending them both into another fit of cackling that has yet to cease by the time she takes her seat again.

“How could you only let this slip _after they’re gone_ ,” Claude demands to know, “How am I supposed to make fun of them _now?_ ”

Ashe begs off not long after that, being that he’ll also be leaving early for the long trip back up north. From there, the evening dwindles down to quiet reminisces and fond recollections, dishes cleared and bottles emptying.

Eventually, when twilight trickles to dark night stillness, the two kings are left with Byleth alone for company, until even they bid them goodnight.

They press a kiss to Dimitri’s cheek, their arms around his broad shoulders, and up on their toes to do it, while his own circle their slim figure.

To his surprise, they embrace Claude just as warmly, and thread a hand through the back of his hair. Pulling away with a kiss to his temple, they give him a sleepy smile and say softly,

“Good night, new king.”

•••❂❂❂•••

Despite the late night, they’re up in time to bid Ashe, Sylvain, and Felix farewell. Ingrid hugs them all again, pointedly giving Ashe a lingering kiss on the cheek just to make Sylvain feign heartache.

She eventually gives in, and gives him one too.

“Moron.”

“The biggest.” He agrees softly, wrapping her up in another embrace.

“You’re the second biggest.” She tells Felix, who manages to grimace only slightly when she gives him a peck on the cheek. He surprises everyone by pressing one of his own to her forehead, quick as a hummingbird’s flutter.

“I must be, to put up with the likes of him.”

“Look at you, going soft.” She laughs, lightly shoving his shoulder. He only scoffs at that, before turning to haul himself up onto his horse.

“Be well, all of you.” Dimitri says, the words a prayer in the secretive air of early morning. “Have a safe journey.”

“We will.”

They ride just as day breaks, quickly disappearing into the morning mist. Dimitri and Ingrid watch them long after they’re gone from sight. Claude doesn’t interrupt them. Doesn’t say a word, knowing their unspoken fear.

•••❂❂❂•••

After the excitement and surrealment of the past few days, it’s jarring to finally be firmly seated back at his desk as the servants draw the curtains, a daunting stack of papers and files piled high.

There’s just as much piled onto the second desk that’s been brought in for Claude.

He stops short at seeing it, blinking for a few seconds before declaring, “I might need more coffee.”

For now, he’ll be catching up with progress from the past few years, and the current projects in place. The material compiled for him is Dedue and Ingrid’s work, meticulous and thorough, in preparation of his arrival. Over the following days, they take turns sitting with him throughout the day to go over their reports.

Dimitri comes in and out as meetings and duties dictate. He watches throughout the day as Morning Claude, clever and focused and bright-eyed, becomes an Afternoon Claude; a wilting, groaning mess in his chair.

But he is tenacious, and for all that he has to suddenly absorb, he catches on quickly.

Once he’s through the thick of it, he accompanies Dimitri for official discussions, a new place for him beside Dimitri at council gatherings. Some are already familiar with Claude from his days leading the Alliance, a few who had even worked with him. Those who don’t, seem unsure what to expect of the ripple he’ll cause. They mostly stay polite, at least in their presence. They watch Dimitri, surely to take their cues from how he interacts with him.

Dimitri is aware, as his scathing thoughts supply, that some won’t take to a “foreigner” as easily as they would to a pureblooded Fodlan native.

So he makes it a point to defer to Claude before anyone else. If he realizes it, he doesn’t comment, but handles the room with the grace and the sort of social savviness that Dimitri had counted on him bringing.

He diffuses arguments before they even begin, skillfully redirects conversations to where he wants them with every calculated work he speaks, all while making it seamless and natural. No one seems to notice, or at least be able to pin it down.

Despite the way he may casually lean on an elbow, chin perched on a curved knuckle, his eyes are intense and keen behind that easy smile. Taking notes with a practiced hand, he asks the right questions at the right times. Even the most cautious of them are slowly won over by his demeanor; inviting and clever, effortlessly charismatic.

It’s more difficult for Dimitri to tell what his husband thinks of them than how they consider him, through their noble-bred manners. Claude says little about most people, even once the talks have adjourned and they’ve relocated to the privacy behind their doors.

Their days begin to revolve around each other, among the shuffling of papers and scratching of pens. They take their meal breaks in the dining hall, or sometimes have it sent to one of the private dining rooms when they prefer less noise, less attention.

Even then, Claude’s mind is ever working, usually looking over yet more paperwork or referencing materials as they dine. Asking ever more questions, seeking ever more knowledge.

“And people tell me that I overwork.”

“Mm?” Claude glances at him over the top of the territory dispute he’s brought today. “Oh, trust me, I’m not keeping up this breakneck pace. Only until I’m up to speed.”

He worries if Claude is overwhelmed when his desk devolves into an absolute disaster. Within days, it’s covered in papers, scrolls, scattered parchments and half-written notes, disjointed towers of books and notebooks stacked not only on the desk, but beside it as well.

The chaos spreads out over the coffee table, the side tables, and once, Dimitri even almost sits on a tome halfway wedged in between the sofa cushions, saved only by Claude’s frantic cry and quick hand at the last second.

After a few weeks, it becomes more and more clear that it’s not born from anything other than the chaos that is Claude’s own habits.

“For goodness’ sake!” Ingrid huffs, trying in vain to sort through it. “How do you ever find anything in this mess!?”

“What are you talking about?” He asks, planting his hands on his hips. “It’s in perfect order. You’re messing up my system.”

“ _Messing up_ …” She fixes him with an irritated glare and snaps, “Can I have that request form I asked you to sign two days ago? The one for the equipment order?”

“Yes, yes, my dear.” He sing-songs, leaning over and cleanly plucking the paper from the catastrophe of his desk and passes it over to her waiting hands.

“Honestly. What if you lose something? These aren’t _school assignments_ , they’re important official documents for your kingdom!”

“Ingrid, please. I know where _everything_ is. I told you, there’s a system. I got this.”

Dimitri listens to the scene while he sits very still, nose pointedly in a document, hoping to not be dragged into it.

Still, at the very least, it tells him that Claude is settling in. At least, so he hopes.

And finally, it seems that he must, for after a time, he starts becoming as difficult to find as any of his documents.

He’ll go for a walk to stretch his legs, and after an hour of disappearance, Dimitri will have to search for him, needing input or a signature. Or, he’ll leave for an errand, and be gone far too long, distracted along the way to return to the prison that is his office chair.

“Claude,” He finally pleads, exasperated, as he finally manages to locate him in one of the studies. “I cannot chase you all day long. I must at least know where you’ve gone.”

“Oh,” At least, his husband seems to realize what he’s done, and closes the book he’d been flipping through. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess I did get sidetracked, huh?”

So he says, but he still ends up disappearing throughout the day, and Dimitri starts to sympathize with Seteth, wondering if this is much as he feels, chasing Byleth around all day long.

“ _How_ did you end up here?” He asks, despaired at finding Claude in one of the most remote studies on the far side of the estate. “You said you were looking for finance records after the War of River’s End. Those are generally kept in the Western Archive room.”

“I was! I found them.” Claude defends, patting a stack of notebooks on the corner of the desk. “I wanted to see how they structured their budgets afterwards, since both territories bounced back fairly quickly and prosperously.”

“Yes, that is what you said when you left three hours ago for a room that is down the hall from our office.”

“Right, but both territories had access to fairly fertile farmland, that’s...sort of a dead end, because a big part of the problem for us now is that we don’t. So then I started researching the economies of territories that aren’t known for crops, and might have gotten a little distracted. Hey, did you know that there are _thirty-eight_ different formulas used with Brigid’s ceramics? It’s because there are so many different natural resources on the...oh, you look upset. Are you upset?...Yeah, you look upset.”

“...I am going to start having Ingrid follow you around.”

“What!? No! Dimitri! Dimitri, wait, let’s not be hasty, here…”

So it goes.

One day, he is scouring the hallways, looking for Claude, yet again. He has to ask several aides and servants where his husband has gone, and circles around two floors of the palace, one of the adjacent gardens, and finally, is directed to the stable.

Wondering where Claude could be thinking of going, and blatantly hoping that he hasn’t already missed him, he makes his way across the plaza to the stables.

Of course, once there, it is then that he realizes he was wrong to go to the horse stables.

This is the day that he meets Nylah.

Nylah, who Claude describes as his _one true love_.

His _forever lady_.

His _incomparable beauty._

Nylah is a massive wyvern with golden eyes, scales the color of white sand, and teeth the length of Dimitri’s longest fingers. This, he can easily tell, because she’s quickly curling back her reptilian lips to bare them at him.

“Nylah,” Claude scolds gently, scratching her lovingly beneath the chin, “Be nice to Dimitri.”

Obediently, she snaps her jaw shut and recedes, but not without an impatient huff that ruffles his dark hair.

“I know, I know,” He coos, with another pat to her cheek. “You have to get used to him first. But no biting, okay? No biting, no scratching. _Gentle_ with the new husband.”

“This is she, then?” Dimitri eyes her as warily as she does him, keeping close to the wall as he edges into the room. He’d known Claude would be bringing his beloved personal wyvern with him when he officially moved in, but hadn’t had a reason to see her for himself.

“Sure is.” Claude, unbelievably, presses a kiss to her scaly cheek, and even more unbelievably, she chuffs and presses her snout against his face. “A real sweetheart. Promise. Once you get to know her.”

“I...have not had the honor, yet.” He says carefully.

“She doesn’t take too well to strangers.” Claude admits. “I had to bring her in myself. Wouldn’t let any of the handlers near her.”

Dimitri has the fleeting thought that owner and wyvern are the same, watching as Claude turns fully to face him, Nylah resting her big, prickly head on his shoulder with obvious affection.

“I assume you came looking for me for something.” Claude says with a smile, tilting his head to rest on hers, a hand raising to pet her while they talk.

•••❂❂❂•••

Much as he’d expected, Dimitri tries to take on far too much. Rather than wield his authority, he favors discussions over orders, compromise over commands. Kind, but inefficient, all things considered, especially given how little most are willing to compromise to start with.

He oversees as much as he can, wary of greedy lords and nobles abusing their power in the face of post-war desperation. Territorial disputes are everywhere along the Kingdom roads, neighborly relations gone sour that could escalate into further violence like flame to oil. Stacks and stacks of reports detailing the strife of the common folk. All crying for help, but there being so little to offer.

It’s admirable, but there’s little wonder that he’s a candle burning at both ends. In the best of times, it’s ambitious, but in the aftermath of the world’s burning, it’s insurmountable.

What’s more, he’s largely alone. Byleth leads the Church of Seiros, Sylvain and Felix are preoccupied with Sreng’s ongoing threats. Ingrid and Dedue are the closest thing to assistance he has, and both do plenty, but are primarily responsible for the castle’s operations, a massive undertaking on its own.

So, here he is, with a veritable ball of yarn to start unraveling.

Between deciphering the deviousness at council hearings, parsing through the last few years of official documents, and having access to the massive archives and libraries of the castle, his mind is never at rest. It’s just one giant puzzle, and he’ll shift the pieces until they fit.

But one can’t properly thrive in a box. When he feels the overwork starting to catch up to his tired mind, he indulges in exploring the massive estate, finding inspiration in expected ways and places.

The first few weeks of his initiation into his royal duties are harrowing, and exhausting, as he’d prepared for them to be. But for all the hours he pours into every corner of the office’s spacious walls, he begins to realize that his crunch is Dimitri’s everyday, and has probably been so for years.

Without Ingrid and Dedue, he might’ve drowned long ago. And thus, he has one more consideration to keep; he has to make sure Dimitri stays in one piece long enough for the work to be done.

While he strokes Nylah’s head, cradled on his shoulder, he glances over at the king with a natural smile, as at ease with her presence as she is with his.

“I assume you came looking for me for something.”

“I did,” Dimitri tells him, “There are a few things regarding the initial proposal draft of the border checkpoint.”

“Ah, yes, _that._ ” Claude pretends to mull it over while stroking his chin. “That _is_ rather important.”

“Indeed. I was hoping to converse on it when you returned….”

“...Ah-ha, but then I _didn’t_ return.” Claude snaps his fingers.

Gazing at him tiredly, Dimitri answers, “Quite so.”

“Tell you what. We’ll do that right now. But first, a change of scenery.”

Tilting his head in question, Dimitri asks, “Where? One of the libraries? I’m afraid there may be too many people passing by for us to discuss sensitive information.”

“No, no.” Claude gestures to the stable doors, thrown open wide, beyond which the sun is casting a heavenly glow on the ground, the landscape green with springtime. “It’s a beautiful day outside. Let’s enjoy some of it for ourselves.”

“That’s perhaps even less secure.”

Claude drops his arm to his side, rolling his eyes. “Get your horse. I’ll saddle Nylah up. We’ll take the afternoon out to the fields. No one to bother us. Or eavesdrop, if that’s your concern.”

“For how long will we be gone? What if we’re needed?”

“My friend, Fodlan will not burn down in the span of a few hours.” He nods his head again towards the entrance. “Come on. Play hooky with me.”

Dimitri remains clearly unconvinced.

Giving him his widest grin, he steps back to pat Nylah on her flank. “My baby girl needs to stretch her wings! You’re not going to deprive her of such wonderful weather, are you? Come winter, and she can hardly go out at all! Plus, she’s getting a little chunky cooped up in here.”

Nylah huffs and bats Claude with a wing, and he insists, “Hey, just being honest. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I haven’t been taking you out. Don’t worry, you’re still the most beautiful girl to me. Don’t be like that! Lookit that, she’s giving me the evil eye.”

To Dimitri, most wyvern eyes are evil eyes, but even he thinks he sees a distinctly displeased glimmer in her golden irises.

“Baby, you gotta be cute if you’re gonna convince Dimitri to let us out for the day. Go on, give him a curtsy.”

He clicks his tongue, waves his hand, and she does, putting a clawed foot forward and bowing her head.

“...Can’t say I’ve ever seen a wyvern do a trick like that.”

“She’s a smart girl. So? What do you say? Are you going to disappoint this lovely lady and your very very very dashing husband?”

Dimitri sighs.

•••❂❂❂•••

When Dimitri tells Dedue that he and Claude will be gone for the rest of the afternoon, he’s surprised, but recovers quickly, offering to have an escort accompany them. Ever vigilant, he seems uneasy when Dimitri declines, but lets it go, simply wishing them an enjoyable outing.

He heads back towards the stables to ready his horse. When he thinks about where he’s going, what he’s doing, a strange fluttering beginning to stir within his heavy chest. His feet feel lighter with every step, the warmth of the sunlight washing over his shoulders, prickling the back of his neck, air sweet with fresh grass and cut hay.

Anais is a young chestnut mare, warned as temperamental. But she’s nothing but docile under Dimitri’s hands, who assures the bewildered stablehands that he’ll see to her himself.

It feels like it has been a very long time since he has tended a horse, but the movements are automatic and soothing. Anais nuzzles at his hair, snorting gently as he brushes her down, dresses her with a saddle pad and riding saddle, laughing a little when she nudges his face with her snout as he’s adjusting her reins.

Soon enough, he is walking her across the yard, down the path and towards the north gate, the one that opens to the wilderness beyond Fhirdiad.

Claude is already waiting there, securing a pack onto Nylah’s saddle, giving a wave when he spots Dimitri approaching.

He hoists himself onto Anais’ back and into his seat, the motion as familiar as a well-worn glove.

•••❂❂❂•••

There’s a strong breeze today, whipping hair, mane and tail back as they ride against it. Anais must love the freedom as much as he does, for she breaks into a gallop with barely a tap to her flank.

Above, Nylah soars, her shadow gliding across the rolling grass. Sometimes Claude takes her down low enough that they fly almost level to Dimitri, giving him a cheeky grin before he guides her up again.

They land a few miles out from the castle, its silhouette faded behind a sunny haze and an army of trees between them.

Dimitri tethers Anais to a tree, letting her graze and patting her down while Claude lands Nylah a little ways off.

“Isn’t this better than the stuffy office?” Claude pokes Dimitri in the side with an elbow, a boyish smile that says he knows he’s right.

“I can’t disagree.”

Finding a spot among the tall wildflowers and grass to plop down in, Claude slings his bag to the side, Dimitri setting down next to him.

“So, first order of business.” He claps his hands together, and crosses his legs. “Where’s that proposal?”

The border checkpoint is one of the most important endeavors they’ll be taking as a royal couple. Almyra had made it a clear priority in the discussions, and the expectations and ambitions were high.

It’s to serve as a trading point, a community hub, and a symbol for a new Fodlan-Almyra relationship. They’ll be in close communication to have it established and, once it’s completed, it’ll be jointly overseen. It would require cooperation, compromise, and, if done well, would foster goodwill between not only the diplomats and royals overseeing it, but the people of the area as well.

Dimitri has with him the initial draft that recently arrived from Almyra, containing architectural concepts and ideas for the base, as well as the gates that would allow travellers to come from and to each country.

It’s to be the starting point for a new network of roads, interconnected with already existing routes in Fodlan, to run through the entire country. Just that morning, he received the report from the scholars he had assigned to the task that offered concerns and ideas for the roads that would bring even the farthest corners of Fodlan to Almyra’s doorstep.

Claude whistles at the diagrams and the illustrations that they’ve been given. The Almyran architects had contracted a few of Fodlan’s to put the concepts together, a blend of both distinct styles. Intricate mosaics with Almyran themes and colors, inlaid in dark Fodlan stone, the gates proudly framed with geometric pillars that would bear ceramic tiles from all over both countries.

A garden, with bright flowers and rich greenery, curving outwards from a plaza, a carved marble water fountain at its center. A public bath, a set of massive taverns, watchtowers and a theater.

It’s thorough and beautiful. Ambitious. It would be a crowning achievement on the parts of both Fodlan and Almyra, and if the glitter in Claude’s eyes is anything to go by, he’s as excited as Dimitri feels.

“They went above and beyond.” He breathes, passing a hand reverently over the papers, carefully turning the page. Even the book was a work of art, neatly stitched and closed within two thick parchments, embossed with gold ink, laid carefully across Dimitri’s lap. “But they think this can all happen in ten years?”

“No,” Dimitri’s smiling, he realizes late, “In their plan, they are proposing the gate and the watchtowers first. The rest is...to come later.”

Claude huffs a soft laugh. “So like Dad to get carried away. So like Mom to take an inch and run a marathon with it.”

“Yet...I...don’t want to refuse this. Any of it.” Dimitri says carefully. He has to look at the numbers too, and it’s...expensive. A financial burden to Fodlan, whose wounds have just been patched over, but have a long way to heal. “But it’s rather extravagant. It’s an investment we cannot commit ourselves to just yet.”

“But, the cost will be broken down over years,” Claude reminds him. He shifts, sitting more heavily on his hip and stretching his leg out, leaning so he can reach over, flipping papers to the budget estimates. “It’s what you called it; and investment. It’ll cost money, sure, but in time, it’ll also bring it in, once the market is up and running. Once we get some of these roads repaired too, the tolls and taxes from the lords along the routes will help.”

“Even so…” Dimitri doesn’t want to deny him.

It is, in a sense, everything Claude wanted, all in one heavy book of parchments, filled with colored ink and neatly bound in dyed and waxed Almyran cord. He’s trying not to let his enthusiasm overrun his sense, even with Claude’s contagious grin.

It almost takes Dimitri’s breath away, how utterly plain the joy in his face is at just the thought. The dream he has had, unspoken and buried deep in the midst of all his schemes. The dream he has surrendered the throne of his birthright for.

“We’ll have to run it by the financial advisors, of course.” Claude concedes, and continues to smile, gaze running so quickly over each page, Dimitri wonders if he truly can read that fast, even while talking. “And yeah, maybe we’ll have to compromise some things here and there...but this is the start, you know? Might as well dream big.”

He looks up at Dimitri, radiant with hope. “Think of it. I know it’s, you know...kinda crazy, but we can at least give ourselves that for now.”

Dimitri blinks, Claude looking at him with all the charming deviousness of a child who won’t be told _no_. Who can’t be, who is so sure he will get his way.

_It is a beautiful dream._

Yet, as much as he wants to tamp down his own excitement, maybe there is no harm in dreaming, just a little.

“...Yes,” He admits, “Maybe we can.”

They read over the finer details of the draft, and the materials Dimitri’s people have compiled. Tracing over maps and lines of tidy script, they laugh when they almost lose the papers to the wind, hurriedly snatching them out of the grass and weighing them beneath rocks.

Claude pulls out a waterskin from his bag, and they pass it back and forth while they share the handful of things he had snatched from the kitchen on his way out. Slices of cured meat on bread, a bundle of grapes, a wedge of sharp cheddar. A few overly ripe nectarines, so sour-sweet that even Dimitri winces from the sharpness on his unsuspecting tongue while Claude laughs, licking at the juice that runs over his palm and down his wrist, with no one to judge their lack of manners.

Nylah wanders over to snort at Claude, cuddling into his stomach and pushing forward until she topples him over.

“Ugh, baby girl, you’re too big to fit in my lap,” He groans. “Have been for years.”

Dimitri chuckles, and laughs almost freely behind his hand when she bends her head down to lick at his cheeks as he wails, his face covered in thick, dripping wyvern saliva.

“That’s so very not charming.” He grumbles, yanking a handkerchief from his bag to wipe his face.

“I didn’t know wyverns showed affection so freely,” Dimitri wipes at his eye. “You raised her from an egg, you said?”

“Sure did. She slept in my bed with me, until she was too big to fit inside anymore.”

“That’s quite daring.” He takes in her coloring, the unusual crest of spines along her neck and jaw. “I don’t think I have seen a breed quite like her.”

“They’re uncommon, but not super rare. Native to Almyra.” Claude explains, righting himself. Immediately, she flops beside him, like an overgrown puppy, her head resting in his lap. While he scratches at her chin, she huffs contentedly, and he goes on to say, “They have a bit more of a stubborn temperament than others. It takes an experienced handler to train them properly.”

“Did you train her yourself, then?”

“Ah, somewhat. With help. But she’s been with me through everything.”

“You rode her into battle.” Dimitri remembers her great wingspan, flying over carnage and fire. Glimpses of her swooping and curving in the sky, arrows falling loosely as rain, precise and deadly as lightning.

“I did,” Claude recalls, stroking over her head. “I wouldn’t trust any other mount.”

They talk longer than they thought, as the sun starts to dip from midday to afternoon. Claude stretches out, leaning back against Nylah’s side and encouraging Dimitri to do the same.

“I don’t think we’re there quite yet.” Dimitri says, noting how she stares hard and long at him anytime he so much as appears to be moving closer. Her tail swishes, neck bent towards her master in protective grace.

“Maybe eventually.” Claude smirks.

The air is sweet with springtime bloom, summer ripening on the trees. A strong wind ripples through the hills of wildflowers, sending Claude into a sneezing fit.

“Defeated by pollen, oh mighty prince of Almyra?”

“Shush, you.”

Nylah chitters, nosing Claude’s arm until he continues petting, absentmindedly gazing out at the scenery before them. Dimitri watches her eyes flutter and shut, dozing off.

“Hey,” Claude says suddenly, “I’ve been thinking.”

“You don’t say.”

“I—okay, smartass.” Claude sits up a little higher against Nylah, carefully crossing his legs without jostling her too much. “Anyway, you know how Almyra will be sending surplus from the harvest at the end of the season.”

“Yes.”

“I think, when it comes time to distribute it, we should go with it.”

Dimitri tilts his head. “Escort it ourselves, you mean?”

“Yeah. Especially west. Especially into old Empire territory.”

“In the Empire’s old borders? We cannot leave Fhirdiad for that long.”

“We can, with some planning, and that’s why I bring it up now. We have time to prepare. If the capital of the country falls to utter collapse without its kings sitting in a chair for a few weeks, that begs little faith in the systems that be.”

While he mulls this over, Claude adds, “It’ll be a good chance for us to meet with the lords in those territories. I bet you haven’t had a lot of facetime with them.”

Raising an eye in thoughtful blue silence, Dimitri shifts himself to face him more fully.

“...You have assumed correctly.”

“It’s barely an assumption.” Claude leans back, resting his head back along Nylah’s side, but keeps a keen gaze on Dimitri. “When I took that nice jaunt around Fodlan, I got to talking to people. Most of the citizens don’t even know what you look like. They begrudge the Kingdom, and you, by extension, thinking they’ve got it just as bad as during the war, if not worse. You already know all the powers that be in the Empire have fallen to almost complete mayhem, and that trickles down to reflect on you.”

By the way Dimitri goes quiet, it seems that he’s thinking. He doesn’t shy away, though, unflinching at the assessment, the underlying criticism.

Claude holds steady eye contact, voice level, tender. “Your people need to know you. They need to know _us._ How else do you ask them to give us their trust?”

“As much as I would like to argue...I know that you are right.” Dimitri gives him that. “I have always been too afraid to be absent, but maybe it’s...more possible than I thought.”

“You’ll find a lot of things are.” Claude replies, more at ease now that he knows he’s getting his way. “With some creativity and persistence, that is. Of course, it also won’t hurt for the former Empire citizens who hate your guts to see you bringing them relief supplies. Can’t hurt to have a little of the people’s goodwill on your side.”

“That feels rather underhanded, when you put it that way. We really are there to help in earnest.”

“Of course, but that doesn’t mean there can’t be some added benefits to it. We have to look at things from all sides, if we want to take the most advantage of them.”

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at doing that.” Dimitri admits with a shy smile. “That insight of yours, I suppose, is something I’ve been secretly counting on.”

“Oh, so you _did_ marry me for more than my looks.”

"Don't be silly. They had nothing to do with it.”

“Wow. Hurtful, much?”

He laughs, and it’s easy.

They banter as they gather Nylah and Anais, leading them to a nearby river to drink before they start the way back, and it’s easy.

Dimitri is relaxed when he lifts himself back into the saddle, watching as Nylah takes to the air with her rider.

The afternoon winds stay strong, and she rises higher into the sky than he asks her to.

He lets her, taking a deep breath of the fresh air, letting his eyes close, letting himself trust her wings.

He smiles, and it’s easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sylvix confirmed nasty.
> 
> I call this the chapter where Claude and Dimitri get lots of kisses, but none of them are from each other.
> 
> Pari named Nylah. I thought it was so cute ;_;
> 
> Also, I'm more or less decided on the direction of this story going forward, so a few things I want to bring up:  
> • Keep an eye on the rating and tags per update, because they may, respectively, go up and be added to.  
> • Nothing I have planned is beyond the realm of canon-typical violence, or general fucked-up-ness, but I'll add more specific warnings as they come up.  
> • If you have read this far, I love you.  
> • If you've commented, I love you even more.  
> • Stay hydrated.


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you sure about this?”

Sweat trickles down the back of Dimitri’s neck, down the damp strands that stick to his skin. His muscles are burning pleasantly, flexing his grip on the training lance while he circles Ingrid, watching her drop her weight into a practiced form, ready to defend.

It’s warm today, spring beginning to trickle towards summer. The trainees are taking a rest in the shade beneath the overhang, watching their king and their instructor square off in the center of the yard.

“It’ll be fine.” Dimitri lunges, and Ingrid turns out of his way, jabbing like lightning, so fast he’s barely able to parry.

Razor sharp and focused, Ingrid’s eyes are still the same remarkable green as ever. Over the years, she’s forged herself into one of the finest knights the Kingdom has ever seen, with all the discipline that lets her wield her lance so surely.

“The Empire territories will still be dangerous.” She cautions, whipping her lance upwards to fend him off, driving him back to a distance she likes with a terrifyingly precise series of jabs. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion, breath coming in deep, measured flexes of her chest. “I don’t like the idea of you and Claude wandering out there alone.”

“We won’t be alone.” Dimitri reminds her. “We’ll have soldiers and other knights with us.”

“I would still prefer to go with you,” Ingrid persists, light on her feet, careful as she begins to circumvent him. “Bring Dedue and I with you, for protection.”

“No,” Dimitri sees the flare of annoyance in her, knowing she only means the best. “I would rather you two stay here. You’re the only ones I trust to keep things under control in our absence.”

“Then,” Ingrid compromises, “At least have Felix send Ashe back so he can accompany you.”

“Ashe is where he is needed, right now.” Dimitri says patiently, pivoting on his back foot so he can keep her in his field of vision. “I am much more concerned with Sreng’s threats.”

Ingrid’s mouth tightens at the mention, and then suddenly she is upon him, a whirlwind of swinging blows.

The staffs clatter with a bang when they meet, the dulled metal spearheads clanging and ringing with every fierce bout of attack-defend. Ingrid’s footwork has always been her strong suit, her impeccable form extending to the controlled way she moves, dodging in and out of Dimitri’s range.

He has the reach on her, and the sheer power, but her wiliness makes her a difficult target. She’s never been an easy opponent, but she’s only improved with time, and the thrill of the challenge isn’t lost on him.

“I just want you safe, Your Highness.”

“I know.”

Off to the side, he vaguely hears the recruits murmuring, taking bets.

But he keeps his eye focused squarely on Ingrid. A moment of distraction would mean defeat.

They lash out, swing, cut circles in the yard. Their blows barely land, an equal match as they strike, defend, duck, leap, breathe.

When they finally call the match, they’re panting, muscles singing as they wander over to the rack to replace their weapons.

It’s only then that Ingrid’s gaze turns soft, as Dimitri takes a long drink of water, before she does the same.

“...I would never forgive myself if something happened to you, when I wasn’t there to protect you.” She says as she wipes the sweat from her neck with a cloth. “Dedue wouldn’t, either.”

If they were alone, he’d hug her. Their loving, protective, unfaltering Ingrid. Like the big sister the three of them never, and always, had.

Alas, they have an audience, so he settles for giving her the warmest smile he can muster.

“You are both far too good to me.” Dimitri tells her fondly. “However, in this, I will remain firm. While we are gone, I leave things to you two.”

“As you wish...I simply would rather you have someone trustworthy with you.”

“I will have someone trustworthy with me.” Dimitri reminds her. “Claude and I will have each other.”

Taken aback, Ingrid’s head whips up to stare at him.

“Should I not trust him?” Dimitri asks, as they leisurely make their way towards the doorway. “I have, after all, trusted the Kingdom in part to him.”

It takes her a moment to recover, although Dimitri isn’t sure why. “It’s not a matter of trusting him or not. It’s more like...I don’t know how he works on the field. I’ve never fought alongside him, and so, it’s almost as if I don’t know him, yet.”

“Mmm. I suppose I can see why you say that.”

The shade from the hall is a nice respite from the sun, even if it is still bright from the windows that line the corridor.

“Still, your focus will be elsewhere. You ought to have someone solely dedicated to your protection.”

“We’ll have more than adequate company.”

Although he tries to assure her, she’s still visibly fretting. So, he relents, just a little, and tells her, “But if it will assuage your fears, very well. I’ll find someone both trustworthy and capable of guarding us more closely.”

That, at least, lets her smile at him, just a little.

“Thank you.”

When he and Claude had brought up the intent to journey in the Empire, their advisors had been split. Some didn’t see the point, and thought it enough that Dimitri’s their king. Fealty and loyalty would come with time, woe be to those who didn’t fall in line. Some supported it, citing the difficulty in governing those lands while it was still a mess. They might get away with less of it, with their kings and an army at their doorstep.

(Dimitri is not fond of either perspective.)

Neither Dedue or Ingrid like the idea of being left behind, allowing Dimitri out of their sight for so long. In hostile lands, no less. Since they raised the plan a week ago, both have continuously bothered about it, trying to wear him down into allowing at least  _ one _ of them to go. Claude mysteriously disappears when they try to entreat him, since  _ Dimitri _ clearly won’t listen to reason.

But the two work well as a team. Both are diligent and efficient, and many of their responsibilities overlap. By now, they know the workings of the castle and the court, and are firmly on Dimitri’s side in all matters. No one could sway them while he was gone. It’s well known their loyalty runs stronger than steel.

He writes to Byleth the next day, including the details of the trip thus far, seeking to join with the Church for the expedition. If they could lend soldiers and clergy to help pave the way with citizens more inclined to trust them than the Kingdom’s own, it may help. He also relays his friends’ concerns, and asks if they should know any trustworthy persons they may be able to recommend for extra protection.

After that, he writes a summons, for Felix, Sylvain, and the Margrave Gautier, to discuss the Sreng issue.

Dimitri pens this one very reluctantly. It’s…not going to be a pretty sight. He’s already certain of that. Hoping they would work it out amongst themselves would lead nowhere, and Claude recently insisted that it was time they all be on the same page over it.

He wants to be ready for anything, as much as possible, and he is right to call it the time. Dimitri admitted that preparedness is never a bad idea, and watched Claude lean over his desk, tracing maps and scribbling notes in a state of concentration that fascinates Dimitri to see him in.

The messenger leaves with the invitations, one going to the Gautier estate, and the other to Fraldarius’. That done, Dimitri takes a short break with Dedue, raiding Claude’s coffee stash to go with the biscuits he’d brought back from town the other day. They’re not quite as good as Mercedes’, but they’ll do.

_ “It’s the love she bakes into it!”, _ Annette would say, and she’d be right.

Afterwards, they re-settle back to their work, lightly noting the warming weather and the stretch of clear days. Summer fruits are beginning to appear in the market stalls, as the basket of fresh raspberries on the table attest to.

It’s a rather peaceful moment, as they go over some relatively benign reports with some local construction. It’s nice that something is going smoothly, for once— 

Claude appears suddenly and loudly, the wooden door noisily shoved open.

Barely do Dimitri and Dedue have time to look up as he urgently strides across the office, and, slightly alarmed, he sits up in his seat.

“Claude, is something—”

“Well, now you’ve gone and done it.” Claude tilts his head, feet planted squarely on the floor and hands on his hips.

Dimitri blinks.

Behind him, Dedue passes a bemused glance at Dimitri, looking like he might want to say something, but unsure of what.

“What exactly is it that I’ve done, again?”

“Think  _ real _ carefully, Dimitri.”

“…Is it the coffee? There’s still plenty left.”

“I—what? What, no, it has nothing to do with—” Waving a hand, Claude sighs before using it to rub his temples. “Dedue, would you mind excusing us a moment? I’m afraid this is a bit more of a personal matter.”

Uncertain, but dutiful, Dedue casts an uncertain look their way, before he carefully stands.

“Of course. I’ll be outside.”

Once the door is shut quietly behind him, the silence leaves Claude and Dimitri staring at each other across the expanse of the desk. One wary, the other quickly becoming so.

It’s the first time Claude’s ever actually seemed  _ annoyed _ with him, and yet, he cannot fathom what he’s done to warrant it.

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“Can I ask a question, first?”

“...Sure..?”

“Okay, so be honest with me.” Claude cocks a hip, one hand dropping heavily at his side. “Are you and Byleth lovers?”

The question is so blindsiding, that Dimitri  _ hears _ the light for a split second as a shrill, high pitched buzz, and he can’t prevent the choked laugh that bursts out of him.

“ _ I beg your pardon? _ ”

“You know what, I don’t even really care if you are, I just  _ really _ wish you’ve told me so we could’ve handled it in advance.”

“Claude, slow down,” Dimitri insists, still trying to hold back the inexplicable laughter that keeps threatening to crack his voice. “What  _ gave _ you this idea?”

“Okay, okay, back up.” Claude sighs, clearly not as amused. “You remember when Byleth visited for their birthday?”

Byleth doesn’t actually know their birthday. They simply pick a random day per year to celebrate it, and for this one, they had used to wrangle a few days off in order to visit Fhirdiad. Seteth clearly knew better than that, but he allowed it.

So they’d spent the time entertaining themselves in and around the castle, fishing in the nearby rivers and causing harmless mischief in the form of mysteriously missing food, switching Claude’s papers around when he wasn’t looking, and taking naps at random spots around the grounds.

They made tiny braids in Ingrid’s hair, bid Dedue lean down any number of times so they could stick flowers in pockets, buttonholes, or anywhere else they would stay. They wove flower crowns for all of them, having been taught the art by Flayn, and finding anytime Dimitri sat, generally anywhere, as in invitation to lay themselves across him—

“Ah...did people find our relationship suspicious? People have always speculated, but I assure you, it’s baseless.”

“No, not this time.” Claude’s brow sharply dips. “It’s different when someone sees the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros  _ leaving your bedroom  _ in the morning.”

All the blood seeps out of Dimitri’s face.

“Now look, whether or not you and Byleth are actually fucking—”

“—We’re  _ not _ —”

“I don’t have to tell you what it looks like when we sleep in separate rooms, and then the archbishop, whom you’re suspiciously close with, waltzes out of your bedchambers early in the morning, disheveled and half dressed.”

He doesn’t. Dimitri takes a long, slow, steadying sigh.

“Like, to be honest, if you and Teach are a thing, whatever—”

“How many ways must I tell you that we’re not?…Wait who said they were  _ half-dressed _ , they were certainly  _ fully _ dressed—”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s what people are hearing. And it’s what’s going around.” Claude sighs, dropping his forehead into his palm. “For such intelligent people, none of you have an ear to the ground for rumors.”

“It  _ does _ matter.” Dimitri doesn’t think to stand, but he does, suddenly, his chair clattering. “I would  _ never _ do that to you, Claude.”

Surprise lifts Claude’s face, and he stares at Dimitri for a wordless heartbeat.

“…So what did happen?”

“We were relaxing in my rooms at the end of the night. They fell asleep, and I could not bring myself to wake them.” Dimitri mutters, wiping a hand down his face. “That is all.”

They’d slept beside each other many nights during the war. Byleth, holding him tight in a bid to ward off his nightmares, and Dimitri, arms wrapped around them, assuring himself that they were alive, alive, alive.

Neither of them had thought all that much of it when they’d started to nod off. Byleth had fallen to the lull of sleep, half curled on the edge of his mattress. He’d let them be, and slept beside them without another thought.

But…they were careless. He sees that now.

“…Okay.”

“…’Okay’?” Dimitri brings his wide, blue eye back up to Claude’s stern face. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Look, it doesn’t  _ really _ matter if you’re telling the truth about this or not, at least for now.” Claude heaves another sigh. “Adultery is one serious whisper to be making the rounds.”

Dimitri tries to think back. “Who could possibly have seen them leaving from my quarters? A housekeeper? One of the guards…?”

“Who knows. It could have been anyone. But we  _ have _ to run some kind of damage control.”

“People actually believe this?” Dimitri slumps back into his seat, sighing.

They do, of course. Any scrap of his, or Claude’s, personal life is up for grabs. For speculation, for gossip…

“I hope this won’t come back to them,” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t want them mixed up in such sordid tales.”

“They’ll be  _ fine _ .” Claude says confidently. “If it reaches him, Seteth will wring them like a wet towel on laundry day, but that’s what we call a Byleth Problem. It’d be nothing more than some juicy whispers if not for the fact that you’re  _ recently wedded. _ It makes the marriage look weak from the outside, and if we’re not careful, you’ll garner a very different sort of reputation than you want. If people doubt your faithfulness, it can be used as a  _ nasty _ weapon later. Any question to your character, any ladder-climbers that want to take advantage, and it’ll come back to bite us both.”

“Absurd.” Dimitri breathes, but knows that Claude’s right. “I…I’m sorry. I’ve embarrassed you, haven’t I?”

“Embarrassed  _ me? _ Not particularly. People have mistresses all the time, that’s not what—Dimitri, stop with that face, listen—”

“I don’t have a mistress! I’m not  _ going to! _ ”

“Heaven and hell, that’s not the  _ point! _ And anyway, we have many blessed years together in holy matrimony if we’re so lucky, and I’m not going to hold it against you if you  _ do _ , I would just like to  _ know _ so I can  _ prepare _ for when something like this pops up, and maybe teach you how to be at least a  _ little _ sneaky about it.”

Claude runs his hands down his face.

“You realize, any children we end up having, any heirs we name—”

“— _ Children _ —”

“Gods above,  _ focus, _ Dimitri,” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Claude heaves a sigh. “Ugh. What I’m trying to get at, is that this could have some far reaching consequences. Any kids we introduce could be called into question. Where they’re from, if they are who we say they are, if you’ve been blackmailed or bribed into it by some scorned lover—”

“…I think you’re taking this a little far…”

“Am I? Just think about it. Small,  _ stupid _ things can be exploited. Maybe it’ll blow over and be forgotten, and no one will remember or care. If we’re really lucky, it never makes it to the ears of people who could actually do anything with it.” He relents a little bit, half-sitting on the edge of Dimitri’s desk and crossing one ankle over the other. “In retrospect, maybe I made a mistake in that regard, too. I was stubborn about keeping my own rooms, when what we probably  _ should _ have done is had, at the very least, the same quarters, even if we slept in different rooms. So it at least  _ kinda  _ pretended we’re…closer than we are.”

“I don’t think there is anything unreasonable about wanting your own space.” Dimitri insists. “I just…I don’t know who could have spotted them. Or where. They certainly never mentioned anyone having seen them.”

“For all we know, they saw them coming down the corridor, or the stairs.” Claude shrugs his shoulders. “Only one place they could have come from, after all. Drawn their own conclusions, and ran with it. It’s well known you two are close.”

“As if that is anything to go by!”

“Well. It was enough. Rumors get like that.”

After that, they go quiet for a few beats. Neither move, although they do look at each other. Both a little cagey, neither wanting to put to words the obvious conclusion looming over their heads.

“Dimitri…”

“…Yes, Claude?”

“I think I’m gonna have to move in with you.”

•••❂❂❂•••

“Wait…where  _ was _ he sleeping this whole time if not with you?” 

Dimitri grinds the heel of his palm into his eye, uncouth as it is. “He had his own set of rooms. He seemed comfortable that way, and I didn’t see the need to press him about it.”

Ingrid and Dedue share a look that he can’t read.

“Was that so wrong?” Dimitri murmurs, a little sullen.

At this very moment, while he sits with them for their reports, the housekeepers are in the private residential quarters, moving Claude’s belongings into his rooms. The matron had shooed them both out to keep them from getting in the way.

“It’s…unorthodox.” Dedue comments.

“For a married couple, that is.” Ingrid supplies, and reprimands him next with, “Letting the Archbishop sleep in your bed with you was—”

“Stupid, yes, I know.” Dimitri huffs sharply, more irritated at himself than her. Still, he hadn’t meant to snap, and Ingrid glimmers with displeasure at him from across the table.

“Yes, it  _ was _ .” She sets her cup down a little sharply, and he suppresses a wince.

“Forgive me,” Dimitri entreats, watching her try and fail to keep her temper flared with him. She never can. “I am…a little unsettled.”

“I understand.” Ingrid tells him kindly. “Allowing someone into your personal life is a big step. Still, you  _ did  _ marry the man, you  _ had _ to have been prepared for this in some way.”

“I…suppose. I thought about it too much in the abstract. I didn’t much consider having to prove our bond past the marriage itself. Foolishly, I suppose.”

“You thought about it as  _ work _ .” She astutely points out. “And forgot about the part of having a  _ husband. _ ”

And the realization comes crashing down around his ears like shattering glass.

“...When you put it like that, Ingrid…” He sighs. “You’re absolutely correct.”

“You’re a goof, Dima.”

“However, in my defense, he has treated it much the same.”

“You’re both goofs.”

She says the last part lovingly, and Dedue, traitorously, doesn’t argue. He does, however, reassure him, “You have married an…odd man, but a good one.”

“Odd is one word for him.” Ingrid leans her elbows on the table. “I realize I’m hardly the best person to give relationship advice. But, you know…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to start thinking of him in those terms.”

“I already think of him as a friend.”

“Yes, but what I mean is…” She searches for the words, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “He’s your  _ partner. _ ”

“But I—we—” Gesturing vaguely, Dimitri can only stand their amused looks for a few awkward moments before dropping his hands to the table, knowing from the burn on his face how he must look. “We don’t… feel that way about each other.”

“I’m not saying that you must,” She says gently. “But…how should I put it?…”

“You have many friends who love you dearly, but not a companion.” Dedue explains. “Romantic or no, there’s something to be said for having someone beside you in a different capacity.”

“Yes,” She agrees, resting her chin atop her hands. “Someone who walks  _ with _ you, and not merely beside you. Is that not how you regard your relationship with the Archbishop?”

“I have said many times, we’re  _ not—!” _

__ “Heaven’s sake, Dima!” Ingrid huffs impatiently, suddenly sitting up and slapping her palms to the table. “I’m not  _ talking  _ about a necessarily  _ romantic _ relationship. It can be perfectly platonic. Your bond with Byleth is special, isn’t it?”

“I…yes.”

“As crafty as he is,  _ as sly as fae,  _ that one,” Ingrid rolls her eyes, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, “Claude is, as Dedue said, a good man. You wouldn’t have married him if he weren’t, and  _ we _ certainly wouldn’t have  _ let you _ if he weren’t.”

“Oh, I sincerely apologize. I failed to realize that the decision was best left in your hands.”

Indignant, she reaches over and flicks him in his kingly nose while he laughs and gently catches her hand to keep it at bay.

“Brat.”

“I am not well versed in these matters either,” Dedue admits, tidying the papers on the table now that they’re finished with them. “But it’s merely an adjustment. Awkward at first, perhaps, but no more than you make of it.”

“He’s right.” Ingrid offers, and places her hand supportively over Dimitri’s wrist. “It won’t be so bad. In the grand scheme of things, this will be  _ far _ from the most difficult thing you’ll have to do as king.”

“Again, you’re both right, of course.” Dimitri drops his eyes to the table, hoping that their confidence may boost his own.

•••❂❂❂•••

The rest of the day passes by as any other, although there is, he senses, a hint of trepidation drifting about the air. Neither of them seem all that interested in addressing it as they go about the afternoon’s tasks.

A messenger arrives to deliver a letter from Fraldarius to Dedue, from Ashe. He immediately excuses himself before slipping out of the room, already undoing the seal before the door closes behind him.

Claude watches with a quirky grin, passing Dimitri a knowing look before turning his attention back to his papers.

Dimitri chuckles to himself, wondering aloud if he should make up some excuse to send Dedue up there as well.

“Don’t.” Claude tells him. “He’s the only one who can brew a decent coffee around here besides me.”

“Surely you can do without for the sake of their happiness.”

“ _ You _ won’t be very happy if I run out of quality caffeine.”

“I see. It is about  _ my _ well-being, then.”

“Of course. Looking out for you first, honey.”

He blows a loud, fake kiss in Dimitri’s direction, who merely rolls his eye and turns back to his work with a smile.

•••❂❂❂•••

After an uneventful dinner, both of them more focused on their plates than each other, Claude decides to wander up to Dimitri’s…to  _ their _ room…to see where all of his things had ended up.

He stops short at the door to the King’s private residences. Yes, it’s technically _ their  _ shared apartments now, but it still feels oddly intrusive. He’s known where they were all along, but he’s never actually been in here.

With a quiet sigh, he braces himself and unlocks it, pushing the heavy door to swing open.

The entry room alone is so large, he nearly mistakes it for the bedroom itself. It had, it seemed, been turned into something of a parlor, with a sofa, a few modest chairs, and a low coffee table. A subtle door to the side indicates a coat room, and as he steps inside on rich blue carpet, he sees another room down the short hallway, leading to what looks like a private balcony.

There’s still natural light to the rooms, as the sun streams in through the large windows in its dusky glory.

Pressing on, he finds the washroom, an adjacent room with an ornate bathtub, linens folded and stacked neatly along a shelf.

The bedroom itself is, appropriately, enormous. Its large windows face the north, by his calculation, so the time of day will always be clear. On the far side of the suite, is yet another set of doors that leads to another, smaller balcony.

The room is big enough to accommodate a large oaken desk, intricately carved along its base and with an attached bookshelf. Though he can’t be sure how full it was originally, he can see already where some of his own volumes have been carefully arranged. The ones he doesn't recognize, he’ll have to inspect later.

There’s a connecting, private restroom, even larger than the other one, with an even larger bathtub of immaculately polished dark marble, and a large mirror set over the porcelain sink. A few small, neat rows of toiletries line the shelf, and heavy linens set on a lacquered wooden rack.

Being in a new space, where his things had been handled without him present, is enough to set off prickles along his neck.

_ Calm down. Things are different here. _

At least, different enough that he didn’t have to worry about a viper hiding in his drawers, or something poisonous mixed into his bath oils.

Probably.

Doubtlessly, maids are in here often enough to tidy and clean, even though he doesn’t know their routine yet. He’ll have to learn them, if they’re different than the ones for the rest of the palace. If the roster of servants rotates often, who has access to the rooms when they’re not there.

As he slowly circumvents the room, he scans for every detail, so he’ll know when one is out of place. Over his inspection, he spots the subtle hints of Dimitri’s presence.

There’s a coat draped over an armchair, well worn and even a little frayed at the lapel. On one of the side tables, a few history books, and an illustrated encyclopedia of world architecture.

…A book detailing Almyran culture… 

A pair of well loved riding gloves placed neatly at the corner of the desk, beside a ready stack of parchments. Several bottles of ink, a few quills and pens laid in a porcelain rack, and the little spotted rag he must use to wipe them down with.

Small vases are placed on several of the windowsills, with fresh flowers from the gardens.

Lavender.

_ Devotion, caution. _

__ Freesias.

_ Friendship, trust. _

Magnolia.

_ Dignity, nobility. _

Well. No one is putting that much thought into what flowers are plucked for the king’s rooms.

There are two massive dressers beside each other. He assumes one must be for each of them, before noting with some degree of amusement that above each, a small frame has been hung, each embroidered with their respective crests.

Opening the one below his, he finds, sure enough, that his clothes have been delicately placed within the drawers, and he carefully pokes through all of them to make sure he knows where everything is.

He wanders his way into the walk-in closet, which is bigger than the dormitory room he’d had back in school. Along one rack is, of course, Dimitri’s clothes, and curiously, he brushes through them.

Lots of dark blue, navy, black. Steely grays, soft neutral browns, a few dashes here and there of different colors.

Fine, practical clothing, made with immaculate craftsmanship, of course. Embroidered with rich threads, kept in pristine condition, but nothing very ostentatious or gaudy.

As he already knows, Dimitri is of modest taste, and it’s almost ironic that someone who wore his title so seriously wore garments that some royalty would consider quite humble. Or, maybe it was  _ because  _ he puts so much gravity on his duty.

On the opposite side, of course, is his own wardrobe, hung with equal care and thoughtfully arranged by season. His heavier winter clothes are towards the back of the closet, but within easy reach for when the cooler weather sweeps in after summer. Curiously, there are a few he doesn’t recognize; embroidered doublets, a heavy woolen shawl, a fur-lined cloak.

He doesn’t remember bringing anything like this. Had they accidentally mixed in some of Dimitri’s?

He’s parsing through them when he hears the door open, perking up at the sound of footsteps.

“I owe the staff a fruit basket or a round of drinks or something,” Claude calls sheepishly as he emerges from the closet to the sight of Dimitri appearing in the doorway. “I just asked them to move my things to another suite a week ago.”

“How many times did you ask those poor housekeepers to move you around?” Dimitri teases as he unfastens his overcoat.

“Only four or five times…“

“Oh,  _ Claude _ .”

“…Maybe both, then?”

Being that the last dredges of sun are draining to violet, they light a few lamps and candles. Dimitri carefully opens a window to let the breeze in, behind the curtain that he drops for privacy.

“Have you found where all your things are?”

“More or less.” Claude stretches his arms out, rolling his shoulders and hoping he appears more at ease than he actually is.

Over the next few minutes, they step into a dance around each other. Pretending they’re both acting natural, pretending that this is normal and that they already know the moves, that their footwork isn’t awkward.

It still feels like an invasion of sorts. Up until this morning, when Dimitri had left this very chamber, he had inhabited it alone, and now?

Well.

Claude briefly glances up at the high ceiling, each large panel embossed with delicate molding.

He looks across the room at his husband, who is carefully draping his jacket over the chair at the desk, fingers lingering, before turning to sit at a stool to begin unbuckling his boots with careful fingers.

Did Dimitri feel alone, in this glorious cavern? Did he enjoy his solitude, possibly his only true refuge? Does he now begrudge having to share it?

As he watches, Dimitri pauses once both boots are undone. Sighing, barely visibly, his broad shoulders slope.

Wondering briefly what the matter is, Claude continues to observe. Dimitri fidgets with his collar, the edges of his gloves, and sighs again.

For a few moments, both are still. Gentle shadows hedge the room, the plentiful light from the lamps flickering, casting his edges in gold as Dimitri, finally, sits up and slips off his gloves to lay them across his knee.

Ah. Of course.

Before every gamble, there’s a little trill of nervousness, both exhilarating and frightening. Directly proportional, of course, to the nature and scale of said gamble.

And, while this is hardly the most dangerous venture to have, Claude thinks back to all their time together, and is willing to venture that this proper and decorus husband of his is unused to disrobing around many people.

He’s also willing to bet that he’s much less shy about it, so he strides with false confidence across the room, conscious of when he catches Dimitri’s eye as he swiftly undoes his outer jacket, stripping it casually from his shoulders.

“What are you—” Dimitri’s hand flies over his mouth, before letting it drop.

“Getting ready for bed,” Claude announces airily. “Aren’t you? I’m beat.”

“Ah…yes, of course.”

“Do you might if I bathe first?”

“Go ahead.”

The water comes from the shower blissfully warm, soothing away the aches from the day. It’s hard not to bask in it, and he might, if Dimitri weren’t waiting for his turn.

When he emerges back into the bedroom in his sleeping clothes, Dimitri is at the desk with a handful of papers.

“Please tell me you didn’t bring work to do in here.”

Dimitri laughs softly, only giving him the briefest of glances. “No, of course not. It’s a letter.”

“Byleth?”

“Yes, actually. They’ve been quite…preoccupied lately. They are, unfortunately, seeking my advice on something on which I can offer very little.”

“Really? Something Teach has a struggle with?” Claude wanders across the floor barefoot, scrubbing over his hair with the towel.

Dimitri pauses, and explains, “I apologize. It’s rather personal. I shouldn’t say any more.”

“Ooohh, well  _ now _ you’ve got my interest.” Claude whistles. “How could you tempt me like that?”

“Claude.” Dimitri says, a little more sternly. “Do not pry.”

“Fine, fine. Keep secrets from your husband. It’s okay.” He sighs, even going so far as to fake a sniffle and wiping an imaginary tear while Dimitri gives him a very unsympathetic look. “My heart has suffered worse, even if I did think you would be more gentle with it.”

“Oh, shush.” Dimitri rises, fussing briefly with his topmost collar fastening before he drops his hand and picks up his folded pajamas, “They are not my secrets to give.”

“Okay, okay!” Claude laughs. “I’m jesting, I promise. No snooping.”

Pacified, Dimitri leaves to disappear into the bathroom.

Claude watches the door close quietly behind him, and, alone, he casts another survey around the room while he meanders towards the bed.

The bed, which is, of course, enormous. Which is, of course, fitting, especially because of the many things Dimitri is, petite is not one of them.

_ This is easy. It’s nothing. _

Still, as he stares at a deep burgundy comforter, matching pillows stacked nearly at the head of the mattress, it feels like an obstacle.

... _ Don’t be stupid. It’s just a bed. _

Running a hand through his hair and blowing out a sigh, Claude shakes his head at himself. He can lead an army, and help set the foundation for international peace, but can’t climb into his marriage bed.

By the time Dimitri is out of the bath, Claude is on one of the padded benches by the window with a book.

Quietly, he resumes his place at his desk, drawing out the letter again to reread before he starts penning a reply. The nib scratches quietly into the silence, mingling with the crickets chirping from outside.

They remain at peace for a few minutes, Dimitri pausing here and there to gather his thoughts, Claude turning pages.

Finally, Dimitri stands. Pauses.

“Shall I leave the light on for you?”

Focus interrupted, Claude blinks and glances up from his reading.

“Going to sleep?”

“Yes. Will that lamp be enough for you?”

“Oh, um.” Claude steals a look at the clock, and claps his book shut. “No, I really should turn in, too. Let’s get some shut-eye.”

They put out the lanterns, shuffling oddly around each other, and after some mild deliberation over who goes where, slide under the covers from opposite sides of the bed.

It’s large enough that they don’t have to touch, and the mattress is wonderfully firm, the sheets soft against the skin. The blankets are light, just enough to keep a body warm from the cool breezes that make it through the window.

Adjusting in the dark, they eventually settle, albeit a little awkwardly.

“Sleep well.”

“Yeah…g’night, Dimitri.”

And then, they’re left with the ticking of the clock, the pale, translucent light from the half-full moon, and the leaves rustling outside their window.

The bed is comfortable. The temperature is perfect.

And yet, his mind is wide awake. Dredging from the exhaustion of a grueling day, but still spinning with unease, overly conscious of the body barely an arms’ length away from him.

Dimitri’s breathing is quiet, and he barely shifts over the course of a few minutes. Interesting; he’d pegged Dimitri for a starfish in bed. Part of him had resigned to waking up with a limb in his face.

But he is, apparently, as polite asleep as he is awake, and as proper with his husband outside of bed as in it.

Byleth had said that Dimitri didn’t often sleep through the night, but after a while, Claude thinks he hears his breathing slowing.

Mildly jealous, he stretches, throwing his arms over his head, and sighs. It’s going to be a long night, and an even longer day tomorrow, if he wasn’t going to get any real rest.

How long has it been?

He peeks a glance at the light, trying to calculate how the light has shifted from when they’d first climbed in. An hour, perhaps two.

There were things that kept him up at night, too, but he hardly ever takes  _ this _ long to drift off.

Frustrated, he turns over with another heavy sigh.

“...You can’t sleep either?”

Claude startles, jumping more than maybe he should at Dimitri’s softly voiced question, and will never admit he almost yelps.

“I…no, not really. Can’t settle down.”

Dimitri sighs as well, and turns over onto his back. When Claude looks over, his eye is open, blue as the night’s shadows, and staring dolefully at the ceiling.

“I’m afraid I cannot, either.”

“Should I find somewhere else? Maybe I can grab some sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not kicking you out of bed.”

“Well, as it is, neither of us are getting any rest.”

“We will have to get used to it sooner or later. The more I thought about it, the more I realized we should have been already. What happens when we have to travel together as an official couple?”

“Oh, yeah. You’re right. It’d be kinda weird if we went somewhere and requested separate rooms, wouldn’t it.”

“Mm.”

“So…what do we do to knock ourselves out?”

Dimitri sighs. “I don’t know.”

Claude barely makes out his profile in the dark, watching as Dimtitri carefully readjusts the band of his eyepatch.

“Isn’t that uncomfortable to sleep with?”

“I…not…particularly. No. It’s fine.”

The way the words are forced out of his mouth, makes it sound like it was a struggle. Like maybe it's a lie.

But Claude lets it go for now, and leans his head back across the pillow.

More time passes. Both take turns staring up at the ceiling, taking turns pretending not to be looking at each other.

“Stop that,” Claude snickers when he feels Dimitri’s gaze on him. “I can feel you staring at me.”

“I was trying to see if you fell asleep.” Dimitri murmurs, a little sheepish, and Claude grins freely, concealed by the dark.

“Not yet. Especially not with you watching me.”

“…I apologize…are you comfortable? Is the bed too firm, soft? You aren’t cold, are you?...Should I fetch another blanket? Oh, should I move over? Do you have enough room? I’m...I’m aware, that I’m not the smallest person—”

“All the stars above,  _ Dimitri. _ ” A snicker, sharp and mirthful. “Relax. I’m  _ fine. _ Used to sleep on the ground, remember?”

“Mm. Those days are far behind us now, though.”

“True, but…don’t fuss over me. Really.”

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

“…”

“…Are you trying not to apologize again?”

“…Perhaps.”

Claude snorts.

•••❂❂❂•••

At some point, he must drift off. Once he wakes, the light is just beginning to brighten the sky from midnight ink to hydrangea blue.

Lifting a hand to rub his eye, he panics briefly at realizing that his eyepatch had come out of place, slid all the way up to his brow. He quickly replaces it, but it may not even matter, because when he turns his head, he sees that he’s alone in the bed.

Although he contemplates trying to doze a little longer, he sighs and gives up. Sitting up slowly, he can already feel his head start to throb from lack of rest. It’s a familiar feeling, but not among his favorites.

Where could Claude have disappeared to, so early?

The apartment is dappled in sparse light, still mostly dark as he makes his way through the quiet.

He finds Claude stretched out on the couch, and thinks him asleep until a creak of the floor draws a sudden, deep breath from him as he shoots up to sitting.

“Claude,” Dimitri sighs. “You didn’t  _ really _ come and sleep out here, did you?”

Blinking, rubbing a hand over his face, Claude groans softly and swings his feet to the ground.

“Nah. I got up a while ago. I just sort of landed here to stretch out, but I guess I nodded off again.”

“You could have come back to bed if you wanted more rest…”

Claude stands, stretches, and hisses at the pop in his back. “I suppose. Didn’t really think that hard on it, I just flopped. What about you? Did you get any sleep?”

“I must have, though I can’t be sure how much I actually did.”

Claude examines him briefly, and whatever he sees must not be entirely flattering, because he sighs and concludes, “It’s gonna be a rough day.”

Unfortunately, he turns out to be right.

They’re both halfway slumped in their seats during breakfast, Dedue too polite to say anything. Ingrid comes to rouse them not long after for a bout of training exercises, something Dimitri seems to take quietly in stride, so maybe this is a horribly more routine thing than Claude knew of.

“Oh come on,” She huffs when he collapses into the grass. “Don’t be such a child.”

“Have mercy, Galatea.”

“Honestly,” Ingrid swings a leg over his back and leans down to encouragingly shake him. “We’re almost done. Come on, now, don’t give up! Just a few more sets!”

“What?! How many more?!”

“I’ll tell you when we’re done!”

“That’s not an answer!”

Dimitri and Dedue watch from nearby, pretending not to be highly amused while Ingrid bats Claude with playful swipes against his sides as he groans.

Fortunately, they only have one meeting today, which is over in barely over an hour. A few members of the council take the chance to ask them, again, to reconsider the upcoming voyage into Empire territory, which both of whom blatantly shut down.

By the time midday hits, they’re both a little worn through, Ingrid looking between them with concern.

“What’s wrong with you two today?”

“I apologize. Neither of us are well rested.” Dimitri mumbles, his forehead in his palm.

She gives a sympathetic grimace.

“Well…hopefully you’ll get some better sleep tonight.”

•••❂❂❂•••

The rest of the day passes in muddy drudgery, not aided by the rolling gray pillows of rain clouds in the early afternoon. Rain taps at the window, and doesn’t cease its lulling rhythm while they muddle through.

They go over some preliminary details of the route for their upcoming trip. Claude suggests that he leave early, to meet the Almyran soldiers at the border. Familiar to Alliance and Almyran alike, he could help smooth the first rocky meeting.

“Shouldn’t I go with you?”

“I think it best if you stay here and let me handle it. There will be preparations to make on this end, too. Besides,” Claude adds, “I’m curious who will say what to me when you’re not around.”

At this, Dimitri sits back into his chair, musing. “And what do you think that might be?”

Claude gives him a cunning smile. It carries just a little too much charm.

Steepling his fingers, he shrugs.

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

Dimitri’s cool gaze does not relent, and he opens his hands, palms out.

“I think there will be people who tell me I’ve made a mistake.”

“Do you think so?”

“Some in Almyra criticized me.” Claude admits, folding his hands in his lap. “They think I’ve abandoned my homeland. That my weak little half-blooded heart couldn’t stand to be away from Fodlan, and thus betrayed Almyra to run into the arms of my equally weak Fodlan king.”

“...They can’t be serious.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

His voice has turned from velvet to burlap, mouth tight around his smile.

“But you...this was for the sake of all.” Frowning, Dimitri’s throat suddenly tastes sour. “You sacrificed your throne for this.”

“Yeah, well. Depends on perspective, I guess. There are enough people who support it. No matter what, there’s going to be naysayers. I’m just curious to see if a few months of truce has started to quell them.”

“Do you think it will?”

“Hard to say. Almyrans sure do love their brawling. Pure strength is the ideal. Everything’s an eye-for-an-eye, and I’m sure some of them feel cheated out of their chance for revenge against Fodlan’s soldiers for some slight or another.”

Taking this in, Dimitri asks, “Do they not see that if that cycle were to continue, it would never end?”

“Some might. Some just plain don’t care.” Claude admits. “They see the truce as backing down. Admitting defeat.”

“That’s…”

“Senseless? Yeah.”

Heavier clouds drift in, draping a somber veil across them. Claude gazes out the window, watching the streams running down the glass. He makes a neutral remark about the weather. Dimitri blandly agrees, wondering what storms are brewing in Claude’s head.

•••❂❂❂•••

That evening, Dimitri finds Claude laying leisurely on the sofa with his book, boots tumbled to the floor and trouser legs rolled up to his calves.

“Welcome back.” Claude takes the chance to stretch, making a dismayed noise when the book slides off his stomach and flops to the floor.

“Ah shit,” He mumbles as he retrieves it, and flips the pages to try and find his place.

It makes Dimitri smile a bit as he cautiously undoes his collar fastening.

At the very least, the worst of the tension has left them. The complete novelty is worn off, and while Dimitri sits in an armchair with his own reading, Claude goes on ahead to the bath.

Afterwards, he’s peering out the window to watch the rain, when he catches his husband’s reflection in the glass, gingerly touching at the band for his eyepatch.

“…You know, I’ll see eventually.”

Dimitri’s attention snaps up, eye going wide before settling beneath his troubled brow.

Claude turns and saunters over, looking up at his husband with no shortage of patience as he sets his hands on his waist. Patience, and a tempered, gentle kindness.

“…I suppose you’re right.”

“Not that I’m going to force you, or anything. I know that…it’s hard.” Claude tilts his head slightly, watching Dimitri stare at the floor. “But I’ve seen all kinds of scars and wounds and what-have-you. Not much could possibly be new to me, and you at least have control over the  _ when. _ ”

A corner of Dimitri’s mouth pulls. He closes his eye briefly while he takes a slow, deep, breath.

“Very well.”

Still, his fingers hesitate when they reach the cord, lips pressing together.

“Easy does it.” Claude murmurs.

Nodding slightly, Dimitri takes another few beats of his quickened pulse before he finally undoes the knot, and slides the eyepatch off. He turns it over in his hands, slowly, while he lets Claude look. 

Healed over gouges of where the skin had been eaten into, the dark, mottled starburst over his brow and casting an ominous slash across the ruined eye. The pupil is a telltale smoky white; there’s barely a hint of the piercing blue that had come before it.

He has an idea, but…

“…Can I ask what happened? You don’t have to tell me.”

Dimitri is silent. Too much so, retreating further into himself with dark reflection. Further, and further.

“Hey,” Claude reaches, hand coming to his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Another time, if you ever want.”

“…One day.”

With a little less decorum than yesterday, they ready themselves to turn in for the night. The rain continues, gentler, at last, barely audible even in the peace of their room.

“I should warn you,” Dimitri breaks the silence tentatively, “I’m told that sometimes I talk or move in my sleep. If it ever bothers you, don’t hesitate to wake me.”

“Oh…alright.” Claude responds casually, taking one last look out the window before pulling the drapes all the way closed, wandering back over to the bed to climb in.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Do you need another pillow, or—”

“Good  _ night _ , Dimitri.” Claude says through a laugh.

“I…er…yes. Good night, Claude.”

•••❂❂❂•••

Despite the knowledge that he’s safe, that nothing is coming for him under shadowy cover, his gut still gives an unsettled twist. Years of honing himself for danger at a moment’s notice, years of thwarted attacks, and threats gone unfilled and made well on, leaves him with the present reality that it will take more than two nights of sleeping beside someone new to be rid of the habit.

Not that he considers Dimitri any sort of threat; just the opposite. Having one of Fodlan’s most dangerous men beside him makes for ample protection and backup.

Yet, even though his husband doesn’t actually seem to move much in his sleep, at least so far, every little motion, every rustle of the sheet and wayward sigh is enough to spike his attention. His ears perk up when Dimitri turns over, when the covers shift over them, and he nearly jumps when he feels the ghost of a breath against the back of his neck.

Sleeping with the comfort of a 600 kilogram beast of fangs and armor that would awaken to any lurking thread is one he sometimes misses. But of course, Nylah is all the way in the stables, asleep and certainly not allowed in the royal bedchambers.

Instead, Claude tries to focus on the soothing backdrop of the rain, trails of water bringing moonlight earthbound.

Remnants of light are just enough to illuminate Dimitri’s form, beneath the covers. Profile sharp, strands of his golden hair caught silver.

“Hey. You asleep?”

Dimitri doesn’t stir, his breath coming in long, easy lifts and falls of his broad chest.

“…Lucky.”

Claude turns over again, closing his eyes and willing his heart to be at peace.

•••❂❂❂•••

As he has for many years with few exceptions, Claude wakes at dawn. Smears of amber, rose, and lilac are starting to make their way up from the horizon, the sky mostly cleared, leftover clouds simmering with color.

His sleep was still uneasy, as he’d woken up a few times to sudden sounds. Whether or not they were real or imagined is for his sleep-addled brain to know, and never tell him.

Nonetheless, he gives himself the pleasure of a long, leisurely stretch, muscles creaking, sighing with relief.

When he sits up, the room is bathed in the warm hush of a summer morning, the birds chiming sweetly from afar.

Beside him, Dimitri still sleeps, seemingly at peace. However, as Claude watches, he does fidget once or twice, his hand twitching against the sheet.

Drawing one knee up to rest his cheek against it, he studies the flutter of his eyes beneath closed lids. The skin is still dark beneath them, and likely to get worse with every night of poor sleep from the new intrusion to his bed.

For brief catches of time, his brow flickers, shadows passing below them. Once, his breath catches, sharp enough to almost make Claude jump, both settling back to peace after a few moments.

Dimitri’s rest doesn’t come easy, it seems, with the way his parted lips tremble around what might, in his unconscious mind, be a scream.

Well, unfortunately, it’s not as if Claude can tell for sure.

He remains like this for a few minutes longer, watching Dimitri settle into what appears to be a more pleasant state of sleep.

Then, carefully, he unfolds himself, rises from the bed, and begins to ready himself for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter can be summed up as "Get in the Fucking Bed".
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and commenting. Each one makes my day. ♥


	6. Chapter 6

Two weeks of threadbare sleep are leaving Dimitri and Claude feeling worn themselves, and in a few days, they will be hosting a potential war council.

Claude is nodding off at his desk and somberly sipping his fourth coffee of the day when Ingrid slams her way into the office. He jerks awake with a yelp.

“Galatea, what—”

“Enough of this!” She proclaims, too loudly, too energetically, for Dimitri to do anything but stare tiredly at her. Clapping her hands, she urges them, “Up! Come on, now, up!”

“Enough of what? Why are we getting up?”

“You’re both exhausted,” She notes, setting her hands on her hips. “You’re barely even being productive. Whatever issues you two are having sleeping, you need to get it sorted, and _now._ ”

“As though it’s as simple as that.” Claude mumbles and plants his forehead on the desk.

“You’re taking the rest of the afternoon off.” Ingrid huffs in declaration, looking between both of them expectantly, daring either to oppose.

“We can’t simply stop working,” Dimitri earns a sharp glance his way. “There is so much to be done.”

“We will handle it,” She promises, “As is, you’ll only be making mistakes and create more work for us.”

“I’m well accustomed to working with little sleep.”

“And you shouldn’t be!” Ingrid insists. “Don’t _make_ me get Dedue in here to agree with me.”

Claude looks skeptical, but he doesn’t quite seem like he’s willing to argue, and meets Dimitri’s half-asleep stare in silent conversation.

“I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed.” Ingrid tells them, a little more gently. “We’ve been watching you two drag yourselves around for days. You’re practically ground to dust. You need to take care of yourselves. Please. We’re worried.”

They must be tired indeed, because for once they take the path of least resistance and rise from their seats.

“We must really make a sight if Ingrid kicked us out.” Claude comments as Dimitri closes the door behind them.

“I suppose we must.” He admits, following him to the bedroom.

Claude draws the curtains as Dimitri pulls off his boots, his eyepatch.

They give each other one long, last, wearied look before climbing in, still fully dressed, flopping ungracefully over the blankets and willing, for once, to let the world pass them by.

•••❂❂❂•• **•**

When Dimitri wakes, it’s night. He had, apparently fallen out so hard, he can’t even tell what time it is by glancing out the window; the sky is an ambiguous, rich sapphire, and his head is heavy as a rock.

Peeling himself from the pillow, he’s unsurprised to, yet again, find himself alone. But where could Claude have possibly gone at this hour?

One low lantern has been left burning across the room, keeping the shadows at bay along its bright edges. He stands, carefully, blinking to clear his head as he orients himself.

He listens for any movement, any bustling about that might indicate where Claude is.

Thinking, he wanders to the parlor, but it’s dark. He walks back towards the entry room, since Claude apparently favors that sofa to stretch out and nap on.

It is, like everywhere else, empty. But from there, he does finally spot his form through the adjacent sunroom and past the open doors of the balcony.

The room itself has been left unlit, but the natural light of the half moon is just enough on so clear a night, that he can make his way through unscathed.

So as not to startle him too badly, Dimitri lightly raps his knuckles on the doorframe, catching Claude’s attention.

Apparently, he had been very deep in thought, but offers Dimitri a tired smile for his consideration.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Good morning, Robin Hood.”

Claude barks a laugh at that.

“If only I were so noble as that.”

“Aren’t you?”

The comment abruptly cuts Claude’s cheer to surprise.

“Oh, man. Not even close.”

Dimitri steps easily onto the stone tile of the balcony, crossing it to join his husband. “You are certainly as crafty.”

With a glimmering smile, Claude shrugs, and rests his elbows on the railing, kicking one foot back to balance his toes on the floor.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Mm. Not very long. Only about a half an hour, I guess.”

“Did you get some good sleep?”

“Yeah, finally.” Claude sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “I guess we’d both just had it, huh?”

“I suppose we must have.”

Above, the stars are so clear, glowing pinpricks of silver against the curtain of the night. From here, they can see out over the yards. On one end of the horizon, the distant patch of trees that trickle into the nearby forest, and on the other, the old, noble city that cradles their home.

Dimitri takes a slow, deep breath of clear summer air, settling his hands against the cool stone. Beside him, Claude looks back up at the sky, contemplative and serene.

A few minutes pass like this, in a warm, mutual silence. Judging by the position of the moon, it’s just about midnight, raised high at its apex and as quiet as they.

It’s gone cool with the sun down so long, and Claude shivers slightly at a breeze, rolling his shoulders. He laughs when Dimitri takes off his jacket to offer, but doesn’t refuse it.

“You really are a noble gentleman.” He teases, sliding his arms through the sleeves. It’s a little large for him, hitting the backs of his knuckles, but he resumes his spot on the railing as he draws it closer around him. “You won’t be cold?”

“I enjoy it.” Dimitri answers, and pushes the hair back from his eyes.

“So, what, you prefer winter?”

“I suppose I do.”

“You monster.” Claude chuckles, but it fades when Dimitri’s lip tightens, his gaze turning out towards the dark shapes of the cityscape.

“But hey,” He tries, the tone gone a little awkward with the shift in Dimitri’s mood, scratching idly at his ear. “A monster wouldn’t give me his jacket because I’m cold.”

Dimitri smiles just a bit, wry and probably not entirely genuine. Clasping his hands together, he leans forward onto his forearms, the wind teasing strands of hair about his face. In the pale of the moonlight, his white shirt is glowing, as light as the shaggy, wispy ends of his hair.

“What is _this?_ ” Claude laughs, and reaches over to ruffle it.

“What is what? It’s…it’s my hair.”

Dimitri tries to frown at him, but it’s sheepish, bashful, and makes Claude want to tease him all the more.

“You’re overdue for some grooming, friend.” He snickers, watching a slight flush rise onto his cheeks. “I didn’t notice, what with it up all the time.”

“…Is it really so bad?” Self conscious, he takes a lock between his fingers to examine it.

“Nah. But it could use a little sprucing up.”

“I suppose I’ll see to that soon…”

Fading into a lull, they return to looking up at the sky. The crowns of the trees sway on the wind, the distant lanterns of the patrolling guards making firefly sparks in the night.

“Who knew something as simple as falling asleep together would be such a problem.” Claude murmurs. “It’s kinda sad, isn’t it?”

“It has been…an adjustment.” Dimitri admits, goes silent a moment, and then adds, “I am sorry you are so uncomfortable.”

“I’m not!”

“You are.” Dimitri turns to him, frowning—no, worried. “You fall asleep on your desk, below a tree, on a library couch and yet—you cannot sleep in our own bed.”

Only able to meet Claude’s eyes for a brief time, he turns, sighing harshly and pushing a hand through his hair. Frustrated with that, too, now realizing it really is as much a mess as had been pointed out, he instead retreats to the far corner of the balcony to peer out at the quiet courtyard, far away and below.

Claude watches, wordless, fingernails scraping across the stone when he flexes his hands.

Summer will draw to a close, soon. They have only just been married in the spring, and while the flowers had grown wild and the trees stretched towards the sun, everything had seemed so very bright.

Towards the eve of autumn, the longer nights will come.

Faintly, Dimitri’s jacket smells of him; it’s mild, and surprises Claude that he can even tell it’s his. He doesn’t remember Dimitri ever putting on any sort of scent, or cologne, but it’s familiar, so he must use _something._

Curious, he lifts the collar to try and get a better idea of the scent, but that’s of course when Dimitri turns back towards him.

Both abruptly stop, staring with held breaths gone brisk in their lungs.

“…It’s me, isn’t it?” Dimitri’s eye is melted around its icy edges, shadowed by the curve of his bent brow, the shadows beneath it shining violet. “How can I help, Claude? Please. I don’t know what to do, and this is my fault, after all.”

Slowly, Claude resettles the jacket over his shoulders, stalling by straightening it on himself, smoothing his hands down over the lapels.

“We’d have to do it anyway.” He says, examining the subtle patterned brocade at the sleeve cuffs. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“But surely,” His voice timbers, trembles, “Surely, there is something I can do to make it better. Something to make it easier.”

A corner of Claude’s lips pull into an amused smile.

“…You know, Teach asked me to look out for you.”

That takes him by surprise. “…They did?”

“Well, specifically, they wanted me to make sure you got some more rest. But instead, I guess I kinda ruined it.”

“You haven’t ruined a thing,” Dimitri corrects quickly. “I…have long struggled for rest. But you were perfectly content until you had to be thrown into my bed.”

“Please, don’t put it _like that._ You make me sound like some ravished maiden.” Claude snorts. “And that’s not entirely true. I don’t sleep enough either, even normally.”

“But you weren’t dragging yourself around in exhaustion, before.”

“It’s an adjustment period, that’s all,” Claude reminds him. “It’s not because it’s _you_.”

“What else could it be?” Dimitri throws his hands up, dropping them helplessly by his sides. “Not that I blame you for being so disturbed, for what I am.”

“Oh?” Claude swings his foot back so he can face Dimitri now, crossing his ankles and patiently lacing his fingers together as he leans on his side. “And what are you?”

Dimitri doesn’t answer. Guilty, melancholic, he stares at the stone between their feet.

_You’re the one who married that beast._

The words echo in Claude’s head.

Dimitri had seemed unstoppable, immortal on the battlefield. Claude had never actually fought beside him, but he could, from among the clouds and plumes of smoke, watch from Nylah’s back as the hordes of soldiers clear before him as easily as though cut grass. The carnage he left behind was… 

_If the rumors have it right, that’s hardly a man at all._

His mother had narrowed her eyes at him when he’d brought up the idea of proposing to Dimitri.

It was said Dimitri was wild, mad, crazed, roaring like a hellbeast unleashed, snapping at enemy and ally alike, woe be to those who got in the way of his bloodthirst.

But rumors are like vines; twisted in all sorts of different ways, hard to tear down. Growing faster than they can be pruned.

… _This is the war-loving madman everyone has warned us about?_ Is what Tiana had said at their very first meeting. She and the King hadn’t been convinced that Claude could even persuade Dimitri to seek peace; but he knew them better than they, who had never met him at all, and so they’d let him have his way.

Still…he can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something.

“Dimitri,” He sighs, finally, and repeats, “It’s not that it’s _you._ I wake easily. I’m a jumpy, frail little thing, you know.”

“You are not _frail_ .” Dimitri scoffs lightly. “But you _are_ easily—”

“…What? What are you looking at me like that for?”

Dimitri’s one good eye is wide, wide as the moon, his blue back to shining azure.

“…Uh, Dimitri? You’re kind of weirding me out.”

His jaw slackens, lips parting in deep thought, as though— 

“…You said you slept with Nylah until you couldn’t anymore.”

“….Yeah, and? She’s my baby girl, what do you expect?”

“She is very well trained…to snap at strangers.”

“Nah, she’s just ornery.”

“I can hardly ever find you in my own estate unless you _want_ me to know where you are, heaven help anyone else who needs you for something.”

“I know, I know, I’m a pest and a burden. Got it.”

“You were uneasy when we visited the chapel. You said you weren’t used to the attention. You were looking around, looking at…the _rooftops_ …”

“…You’re reading _way_ too much into this.”

“You switched rooms. Several times. Randomly.”

“Yeah, so?”

_He wouldn’t kill you in your sleep…after all, that’s what he’s always afraid of._

That’s what Byleth had told him.

Claude crosses his arms over his chest, jaw coiling. “Is this going somewhere, Dimitri?”

Suddenly, the eccentricities line up, coming together like the little cogs of a lock, clicking into place… 

…For he acts like his patron animal. Always prepared to flee. Mindful of every snapping twig, every change in the wind. Light-footed and suspicious, hidden between the trees and ready to disappear into the thickets at a moment’s notice.

“What made you this way?” Dimitri asks. Low, wondrous. “What was your life like, before you came to Fodlan? Before the Academy? During, even?”

Claude is still smiling, but it’s gone tense as a snare. As Dimitri watches, something hard locks over his face, though he hasn’t moved a muscle.

“Not sure I know what you’re getting at.”

“You see danger everywhere, Claude. No one acts this way unless they have lived it.”

“Knock if off,” Claude laughs. “Like I said, you’re thinking too much about it. I’ve always been the careful sort.”

“No, you haven’t.” Dimitri says it, so surely that Claude raises his brow in disbelief. Disbelief, and interest. “You’re daring. You take risks, even if they are measured, because you always have something else waiting behind it, just in case. You _always_ have a plan. I’ve always noticed how you keep others at a distance, and I thought you were simply careful. But…now I think I see. It’s not merely precaution. It’s self-preservation…survival. It’s not an instinct one hones as a mere hobby.”

Claude’s looking at him quite curiously, a slight wrinkle between his brows as he studies his husband through the dimming moonlight. In turn, Dimitri gazes at him, waiting.

“What do you want me to say?” He puffs out a breath, unfolding his arms to run a hand through his hair.

Dimitri tilts his head, trying to read anything, anything at all, in the mask that Claude has concealed himself with. “Am I wrong?” 

“Hmm. Maybe. It’s an interesting theory.”

But that’s hardly an answer, and Claude doesn’t offer any more of one.

Losing confidence, Dimitri doesn’t say any more, watching as Claude takes one long, last look at the sky before pushing himself off the railing and begins heading inside.

“Anyway, we still have half the night to ourselves, and I’m using it to catch as much sleep as I can.”

He watches Claude cross the threshold, wanting to say something, but unsure of what. His chest tightens as the last of the moonlight slips its veil off his back and leaves him in shadow, wondering what he has done wrong this time.

Wondering what even possessed him to say a word.

A little while after that, with his thoughts still in swirling disarray, he follows the trail back into the bedroom, defeated and… 

His jacket has been carefully laid across the back of his desk chair.

Claude has already climbed into bed, in a halfway curl on his side, covers pulled over him.

Dimitri doubts that he’s actually fallen asleep, but is certain that he has no desire to talk.

So for now, he quietly retreats to his side of the mattress, sliding beneath the blankets and pretending, as well, to fall back asleep.

•••❂❂❂•••

Neither of them mention it the next day. Dedue and Ingrid seem pleased by their state of apparent rest, and work carries on more or less as it normally would.

Claude doesn’t behave any differently, but there’s, if Dimitri is not imagining it, an air of wariness about him. He’s certain wasn’t there before. It’s subtle and charged, like the hint of smoke in the air.

For two days it goes on, and for two days he doesn’t mention it. Claude jokes as much as ever, evaporating and reappearing per his whims. Once, he asks Ingrid to go find him, and he and Dedue watch from the office window as Ingrid literally chases him down across the yard, both at a barely dignified sprint.

“Can I say it again? This is incredibly unnecessary.” Claude stresses several minutes later as Ingrid triumphantly returns with him hauled over her shoulder.

“It would have been, if you’d come quietly.” She reasons cheerily as she sets him down in front of his desk.

He grumbles, but he stays put while Dedue plies him with coffee. Dimitri bites his lip to keep from laughing, both wildly entertained and slightly mournful, that he would go to such lengths to keep distance between them.

Another day or two goes by before it, apparently, becomes noticeable enough to comment on.

“Did you two fight or something?” Ingrid seems to speak for both her and Dedue, who is gazing at Dimitri with quiet inquiry. “Something’s…different.”

“No…not exactly.” Dimitri leans his chin into his palm and scribbles on some scrap paper to loosen the drying ink, watching it absorb into the parchment.

When he doesn’t elaborate, Ingrid loosely crosses her arms, a worrying frown on her gentle face.

“I don’t want to sound insensitive,” She says, “And if you want to talk about it, we’re all ears. But you’ve got to figure _something_ out and make sure you’re communicating. Remember that we’ve got a potential war conference in a few days.”

“As much as I would like to forget, I am very aware.” Dimitri sighs and leans back in his seat. “It won’t affect our work.”

That, at least, placates Ingrid somewhat, even if she lingers to remind him, “Just…remember we’re here for you, alright?”

Dimitri smiles, even if faint. Dedue gives him a meaningful look, his and Ingrid’s eyes both gone soft and deeply affectionate.

Probably, also, a little worried. He is tired of giving them reasons to be so, yet he has done it again.

It seems he is always finding a new way to make things worse.

Still, it’s true that he can’t let things go the way they are.

He doesn’t want to discuss it with them. Less so his own privacy, but Claude’s. After all, he had made what he thinks to be a fair speculation on his part, nothing even offensive or perilously invasive, but it had been enough for a door to be closed quietly in his face.

Maybe he doesn’t have the gift with people that others do, but he has enough sense to see that he’s done something careless. He may not understand, not yet.

But just because the winds have changed, shifted the sand below his feet, does not mean that he can afford to take a step backwards.

So the next afternoon, he finds himself walking across the courtyard, bucket of fish and meat scraps in hand. His free one unlatches and easily pushes the thick wooden door, braced with thick steel bars.

Nylah’s golden eyes are glowing at him from the time he’s able to lay eyes on her, nostrils flaring ominously even from this distance.

“Easy, if you please.” Dimitri calls gently, and her pupils narrow, watching with eerie precision as he makes his way in. “I’d rather not be part of the feed today.”

He’s careful to keep his movements slow and relaxed, her attention on him the whole time as he watches her, towards her generously sized stall.

She’s slightly more amicable with other wyverns than she is with humans other than her master, but there’d been enough skirmishes and close calls before they’d given up and given Nylah her own shed. It’s large enough for her to roam a bit, though she still remains secured by a heavy chain. Claude swears she would never try to escape, and has to be reminded that it’s hardly _her_ safety anyone is worried about.

Theoretically, it’s not long enough that she can reach him from where he’s seating himself against the far wall.

_Theoretically._

Maybe she smells the food, because she lifts her snout in the air to give a hearty couple of sniffs, and then she’s right back to glaring at Dimitri.

“You know I’m not going to harm you.” He tries to sound soothing, calm. “I only want you to…well, not hate me. Though, I could say the same to your master, and he may not believe me much more than you do.”

She peers at him, eerily sharp, teeth gnashing. A thick glob of drool slips from her jaw and puddles onto the floor.

“Such manners.” Dimitri pretends to chide, and with a pair of metal tongs, pulls out a chunk of ambiguous meat and tosses it towards her.

It doesn’t even hit the ground; she lunges, snatching the morsel straight from the air and swallowing it without so much as a single chew.

“Terrible, terrible manners. What would Claude say?”

She looks up at the sound of Claude’s name, tilting her head back towards him, and he can’t resist a smile.

“You truly adore him, don’t you? I suppose that’s natural. You’ve known him your entire life, and he has taken very good care of you all that time, I bet.”

This time, he selects a fish to throw her way, and once again, Nylah snaps it in her jaws before it has a chance to fall.

“Which do you like better? The fish, or the meat? Perhaps I should have asked. If I’m trying to win your favor, it would have served to know your favorites beforehand.”

But maybe if she can get used to the sound of his voice, it’ll be a start.

For a few minutes, he continues tossing bites of food while she gulps them down, once in a while throwing in a quip or thought. Though, her eyes still snap to him if he makes any sort of sudden movement as if to approach her.

It’s rather warm out again today, given Faerghus, the shutters propped open to allow the sunlight and the fresh air. With a sigh, he tilts his head back until it meets the stone of the wall, gazing up at the distant clouds that drift as slowly as molasses drips.

“I’m afraid I make a terrible partner. Both in dance, and in marriage.” He confesses to Nylah. “I don’t suppose you have any advice?”

In response, she ruffles her wings at him, huffing softly and tapping the ground with her claws, waiting.

A part of him almost feels silly, speaking to a wyvern as though she could understand. She _does_ seem to sometimes give uncanny reactions to what Claude says.

“I suppose for now I should consider it enough that you are more interested in the food than in me.”

He sits forward, flinging more pieces of meat for her every so often, until the bucket is empty.

“It’s all gone.” Dimitri tilts the bucket towards her to prove it, and she glowers at it briefly before turning once, twice, before resettling herself on her haunches.

She’s still eyeing him suspiciously, and bares her teeth when he shifts closer.

“Ah, still? Alright then.”

Nylah’s golden eyes flicker over him with distrust, though at least, she’s probably not hungry enough to consider him much of a snack anymore. On his part, he’s still not sure if he could consider her a _beauty beyond compare_ , but she’s a handsome animal.

Claude tends to her himself every day. Sometimes he’s able to see her soaring from a distance, if he happens to be glancing out the window or walking along outside.

She roams around the riding grounds while Claude whistles for her, grinning as she listens to every command without delay, laughing when she huffs at him and freely letting her nudge and push him around with her big scaly head or batting at him with a wing.

It’s playful and affectionate, and _cute_ for a wyvern, and he replies in turn with hearty smacks on her flank and fearless shoves at her face. He’ll grab her by the horn and shake, and all he gets for it is a lick to his face.

“Never seen anything like it.” The wyvern master remarked once to Dimitri as they watched Nylah follow Claude around the yard with stars in her eyes. “That beast is crazy for him.”

…What is he even doing here?

As though earning the affection of a wyvern is enough to pry open whatever trap door he’d set off with his husband.

Speaking of, Dimitri looks up at the sound of footsteps shuffling in the dirt, and then— 

“Well, well. Isn’t this a surprise?”

Claude appears in the doorway, casting Dimitri an amused look before striding his way in.

“I _know_ you’re not here trying to steal my lady, Dimitri.”

“I assure you, she is all yours.”

Nylah perks at Claude’s appearance and climbs to her feet, sauntering her way over to meet him at the end of her chain.

“Hey, baby girl,” Claude takes her face in his hands, rubbing up and down her jaw. “Was Dimitri keeping you company?”

He catches sight of the pail by Dimitri’s feet and smirks.

“Ah, I see. He _was_ trying to sweep you off your feet.” Claude laughs, but abruptly dodges her attempt to lick his face. “Oh, no no _no,_ I’m not letting you slobber all over me when you’ve been slurping down fish and raw meat. I smell it on your breath, stinky girl.”

Offended, she huffs and pushes her forehead against his chest instead, while he scratches beneath her chin.

“I know they say the way to someone’s heart is through their stomach, but that doesn’t work as much on Nylah as it does Ingrid.” Claude spares Dimitri a grin. “I’m surprised that you’re trying to make nice with her, though.”

“Well…” Sheepish, Dimitri stands, brushing off some stray dirt and hay off the back of his thighs and rear. “It was a thought.”

Claude is quiet, watching him with subtle curiosity, mouth curved upwards, at least.

“…I suppose it wasn’t my best.”

“… And what train of thought brought you to this one?” Claude rubs over Nylah’s scaly cheeks, while she chirps and nuzzles his shoulder.

“That I…that I’ve gone about this the wrong way.”

“Gone about what, exactly?”

“Apologizing.”

“Apology? To me? You haven’t done anything.”

So he says, but his focus stays squarely on Nylah, affectionately stroking over the back of her neck.

Technically, no, Dimitri probably hasn’t. But he has enough perception to see that he’d blundered something. He’d stepped into a space that wasn’t meant for him yet, at the edge of something raw and forbidden, and it was enough to spook the deer that now runs through the woods.

“Were you planning on taking her out today?”

“If I can get away with it, yeah.” Claude’s toothy smirk amuses Dimitri, almost enough to make him laugh when paired with the mischief that flashes in his eyes. “Why, you coming with me?”

“…Yes, actually. I think I will.”

•••❂❂❂•••

As before, they meet the northern gates. They informed the head of the on-duty staff that they would be out for a while, with Dimitri convincing Claude that _yes_ , they have to know.

Different, this time, is when Dimitri lifts himself into the saddle, and tells Claude, “Follow me.”

“Follow you, huh? Where we going?”

“Well, you’ll have to come with me to find out, won’t you?”

And he doesn’t even bother to watch Claude’s reaction, otherwise he might have seen the interested raise of his brow. Instead, he urges Anais into a trot, and then a sprint, not even waiting to see if he will be followed.

Claude watches him race away, surprise fading into intrigue.

“Well, Nylah-girl,” He says, climbing up onto his beloved mount and settling in his seat, “Seems that straight-laced king I married has a playful streak after all.”

—

He _has_ been going about this all the wrong way.

Anais’ hooves drum in soothing rhythm along the packed dirt path. The farther they move from the palace, the more overgrown the grass, overflowing strands whipping against her legs and occasionally, Dimitri’s.

Almost fifteen minutes go by before he chances a look behind him. And indeed, Nylah’s silhouette glides above.

In some things, Claude is straightforward. About his love for Nylah, naps in the sun, and his opinion on the lowered tax rate that Count Chaumoux had proposed for the (still well-off) lords who had “suffered so during the war”.

In others, he isn’t, and he remembers how he had likened him to Sylvain in his mind before. When faced with emotional vulnerability, they deflect, distract, downplay. Smile, and wave it away. While with Sylvain, it’s best to read between his lines before his truths are dragged out of him, Claude is even more wary, and will simply retreat, retreat, retreat.

But. Claude’s fatal flaw is his curiosity.

Dimitri summons images of the second king at his desk, at times nearly blocked by stacks of books. Aglow in sunlight, he’ll lose him for hours to the call of the library, stretched out on one of the benches or seated in one of the windowsills.

Sometimes, he’ll chat about some obscure, fascinating subject he’d tumbled his way into that day over their meals or breaks; Dimitri had never known so much about historical shipbuilding before Claude had gone on about it for nearly an hour straight.

When he’d asked what made him research it, Claude had just shrugged, told him he’d simply found the book while wandering the shelves and started reading.

“You never know when some knowledge will come in handy.”

Claude loves to learn, all the more when he can apply it. How many times has Dimitri found him with his nose buried in text? Surrounded by sloppily arranged piles of notes and papers, his fingers stained with ink? More than once he has walked into Claude asleep on its pages, as though he could not stand the thought of wasting the minutes to sleep.

How he looks towards the sky, as he probably wishes he could be soaring through it that very moment, through rain and cloud and sun and everything in between and more, with all that knowledge to lift him ever higher.

Without a thought, Dimitri smiles, feeling warm with the sun on his face and across his chest. Feeling lighter than he has in days, the melancholy sweeps from him with the passing wind.

He’s gone and married an insatiable mind, who cannot stand to not know something.

Luring him with flight and a puzzle is one way to draw him back out of the forests in which his deer hides.

So he takes him west and then south, along the dirt road that branches off into a smaller one. It’s easy to miss, but he knows this land, and knows that it would be difficult to keep track of him through the blanket of trees that flash dappled sunlight across him and Anais as they speed down the trail.

A challenge will entice him, and the mystery will keep him interested.

Just to make it all the more so, he commands Anais into different speeds, from leisurely cants, to trotting, to wild sprints through the dense thickets of foliage. He’s had her since the war ended and seldomly rode another mount. He knows her, trusts her, as she does him, easily scaling tree roots and weaving between trees.

They ride until the line of trees breaks. Through them, he comes upon the river. Tranquil, slow moving, mirroring the sky and the treeline of the opposing bank, far as it may be.

He continues to take Anais over the gravelly path, alongside the glimmering water, and smiles once again when he sees Nylah’s shadow appear on its silvery blue surface.

Anais huffs, snorts, and conceding her hard work, he finally allows her to slow down, stopping beside a long patch of grass.

As he leads her to the water to drink, murmuring praise and patting her down, he hears the flap of great wings nearby, the gravel disturbed as a set of heavy claws digs its way into it.

“You certainly took us on a bit of a chase.” Claude calls as his feet hit the ground, and saunters his way over.

His hair is windswept, his grin wild, and for a moment, Dimitri feels like a teenager again; when his bones didn’t ache in the morning, and his head went light with a single mere stein of sweet mead.

“You don’t seem unhappy about it.”

Claude looks out at the water, placing his hands on his waist. For a moment, he simply studies the scene. Thriving green and clear water, rising cliff sides that lead to the hilly paths at the edge of the territory. “This another one of your romantic getaways? Consider me swooned and swayed.”

“Hardly.” Dimitri scoffs.

They settle along the bank, watching fish leap from the water and ducks glide along the drifting current. Nylah and Anais drink before wandering leisurely, the former sprawling out beside Claude in the sun to doze.

“She likes to be near you.”

“It’s cute until she starts kicking in her sleep.”

They talk about the upcoming festival at the end of next week, a local folk tradition honoring the end of summer and praying for a good autumn harvest. The populace would be celebrating with dance and song. Corn and summer vegetables roasted over bonfires, sweet summer berries and other ripened fruit plunked in wine to soak, and kegs of hoppy beer. Whole smoked racks of lamb and cow and hens, for one’s lips and mouth to be burnt on to the tune of a lute.

They, however, would be hosting a banquet for the aristocrats and socialites.

“Our thing is boring.” Claude whines, and leans back on his elbows, legs stretched in front of him.

Dimitri doesn’t disagree, but he keeps it to himself.

But two days after that, Claude would be leaving for the border, to meet the Almyran army for the supplies sent for Fodlan.

And before that, they would be discussing war strategies.

Maybe the weariness shows on Dimitri’s face, because Claude goes quiet looking at him.

“You’re worried, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want more war.” Dimitri says simply, hearing the strain himself, and hears the sigh as response.

“I hear you. Anything we can do to avoid it, we should. We will. But we have to be prepared.”

He nods, a little numb, wanting to focus on the blue of the sky, rather than the way his fingers have started to itch.

“You’re right.”

“We’ll sort it out.” Claude says. It sounds like a promise. “We’ll have our peace.”

Dimitri is so deep in thought, he doesn’t notice Nylah unfurling herself, yawning widely, her fearsome teeth on full display.

He doesn’t notice her looking at him, peering with eerie focus, contemplating.

Then she lifts her heavy tail, whipping it to thwack him in the shoulder, stinging through his doublet.

He jumps, startled, and Claude turns around, scolding, “Nylah! That’s rude! What’d you do that for?!”

Dimitri could swear she’s grinning at him, and, shocked, he only stares back.

“I want to say she didn’t mean it, but I don’t quite believe that.”

“What’d I say about being gentle?!” Claude reaches over and smacks her soundly on her side. “I only get one of these, you know!”

She lets out a playful screech, and Dimitri doesn’t think he’s ever been laughed at by an animal before today, but here it is.

“It’s not funny.” Claude shoves her face. “Don’t do that again, you hear?”

Then he crosses his arms and refuses her mournful plea for pets, as she tries to push her snout under his elbow.

“Don’t apologize to _me_ , apologize to _him!_ He feeds you, and this is how you thank him?”

Suitably reprimanded, she coos before flopping dramatically onto the ground.

“Sheesh. I’m sorry, Dimitri. She’s _never_ done that before.”

“Never? She _is_ awfully protective of you.”

“If she doesn’t like someone, she’ll let them know it. The only people besides me she likes are Hilda and Teach, and she never did that to _them._ ”

“So you _didn’t_ teach her to smack me.”

“Of course I didn’t! When would I have had time to do that?!”

Anais wanders over, nuzzling by Dimitri’s ear with her soft snout and huffing, before wandering into the shallows of the river to drink more.

Thinking it a fine idea, Claude hauls himself up and discards his boots, turning up the hems of his trousers to do the same. After several minutes of urging Dimitri to as well, they’re both calf deep in the cool water, the reflection off its surface almost blinding.

“You must know a lot of nice little spots like this.” Claude speculates as he yanks open his jacket collar. Dimitri has already discarded his jacket, much less susceptible to the cool breeze above the river.

“This is where I grew up, after all.” Dimitri answers with a shy smile. “And I intend to show you every one of them.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” He replies, quieter, “I…think I would like to.”

Claude absorbs this with thoughtful silence.

“You sure are going out of your way to make me comfortable. What a husband I’ve been blessed with.”

“Don’t laugh at me.” Dimitri huffs, “You’ve left your home to take a country of mess and turmoil into your hands. I—I do not want you thinking you have made some sort of mistake.”

“What? Dimitri, I never thought that. Not once. _I’m_ the one who started all this, remember? And I’m not laughing at you, I swear. Kinda nice that you’re like…trying, or whatever. You’ve…well, you’ve tried more than me.”

Perplexed, Dimitri tilts his head just slightly, Claude breaking eye contact to look upwards. Upwards, always upwards.

“As far as, like… _we_ go, that is. Whatever it is we are.”

Unsure of what that means, Dimitri simply shuffles a little further into the water, the gentle splashes lapping up against his knees and just barely brushing against the bottom of his trousers. He watches it resettle as he goes still, his blurry feet becoming clear below its surface.

“We are…friends.” Dimitri offers, a little less certain than he wishes he is. “Friends who just so happened to be married.”

“Well,” Claude ponders aloud, “They do say the best marriages are when you marry your best friend. Are we best friends?”

“If you have to ask that…”

“Fair point.”

“Still,” Dimitri lifts his chin at the sound of sloshing water, turning his face to see Claude making his way towards him. “I would like to be something like that to you, if possible.”

Claude halts his steps, scarcely an arm’s length away, and looks Dimitri in the eye. Veiled as ever, caution in his cryptic, mysterious depths.

“As was astutely pointed out to me,” Dimitri explains, “We are meant to be lifelong companions. And while we _could_ simply work together, as I’m sure we will…I am, I believe, beginning to fully grasp how intertwined our lives will truly be.”

Tilting his head just slightly, Claude rests his weight on one leg, hand on his upturned hip. It’s a subtle motion, but it somehow brings him just a little closer, ripples of light from the water playing threads of gold across his skin.

“It’s not simply the marriage, though. You’ve always interested me, I’ll admit. Impressed me.” Dimitri offers him another tiny smile. “You’re quite the character, and…I would like to better understand the man I married.”

Courage finally failing him, he drops his eye before turning it out to the bank at the far side of the river.

“…Forgive me. I’ve simply rambled my selfish thoughts. Don’t mind them.”

Claude glances back at Nylah, who has since gotten up and is lumbering about the grass, before following Dimitri’s line of sight to the rocky cliff sides. The colors of the stone change with the shifting light below the clouds, their faceted sides as alluring as any cut gem.

“Say, Dimitri…”

“Mmm?”

“How deep is this river?”

“Fairly so, I think, should you wander to the—”

Claude shoves him.

Dimitri stumbles, but catches himself quickly, whirling to stare at him in shock.

“Did you just try to—” 

“Augh! _Why_ are you so damn heavy!? You shouldn’t be that heavy! You giant! You Fodlan-born giant!”

Dimitri smiles, and Claude’s face falls.

“Oh, _hell—”_

•••❂❂❂•••

“What in heaven's name _happened to you?!_ You’re soaked to the bone!”

Ingrid’s jaw drops as Claude peers at her, his clothes hanging off him and dripping onto the stone tile of the courtyard.

“Dimitri threw me in the river.”

“If you’re going to lie, Your Majesty,” She says, rolling her eyes, “At _least_ make it a believable one. Dimitri, what happened?”

“I threw him in the river.”

Her mouth falls open a second time as Dedue reappears with a towel to throw about Claude’s shoulders, who gratefully pulls it over himself.

“You. _You,_ ” Claude tells Dimitri with an accusing glare, “Look _way_ too happy with yourself.”

Dimitri does indeed look far too happy with himself, watching Claude towel the excess water off himself before a maid takes it from him.

But apparently, there’s no hard feelings between them as Claude breaks down into snickers as he heads inside, Dimitri chuckling beside him.

Dumbfounded, Ingrid and Dedue watch as Claude jabs him in the rib, audibly muttering a dignified, “You _fucker_.”

Then they turn to each other, slow grins moving across their faces, before they follow the footsteps of their kings.


	7. Chapter 7

While Dimitri doesn’t want to betray any of his friends’ trust, the evening before their company is to arrive, Claude leans back in his chair, knocks back the rest of his cognac, and drawls, “I’ve heard some _whispers_ , but if I’m not mistaken, there is some nasty personal business going on with our good friends at the border. Care to illuminate me, so I’m not walking into it blind?”

Hesitating, Dimitri frowns. Claude gives him a few seconds before he sighs, and turns slightly to face him.

“Look, I know you want to respect their privacy, and that’s all well and good, but this is bigger than their squabbling. I _have_ to have an idea of what the situation is, if we’re going to handle it effectively.”

Deep down, he knows that Claude’s right. So he tells him enough; that the Gautiers stress the significance of Crests more than most, even among the Fodlan nobles. As the only living Crest bearer, Sylvain is invaluable to them. His own complicated relationship with his parents aside, he’d placed himself firmly in Felix’s camp, but remains in communication with them for the sake of cooperation on their joint defenses.

They had, very wrongly, assumed their seniority would be respected, and took Sylvain’s place at Felix’s side as a means by which to steer them both any which way they so pleased. Which, of course, did not work, and their old blood pride wouldn’t let them back down from the slights of the reigning Duke Fraldarius, who holds no shortage of contention for how the Gautiers had tried to undermine his independence.

Claude brings a hand to his mouth in thought, studying the modest fire in the hearth.

“Do Sylvain’s parents know about the relationship?”

“I don’t know,” Dimitri admits. “They must have some idea, but last I spoke to him of it, Sylvain was hesitant to make it officially known.”

“Is he trying to preserve his inheritance or the Gautier-Fraldarius alliance?”

“I would venture the latter, from what he says. You will have to ask him yourself for a true answer, but I can’t imagine he values his inheritance over what he has with Felix.”

Going quiet again, Claude pours himself another brandy and crosses one leg over the other as he leans back.

“How loyal are the Gautiers to the crown?”

“Very. They may not approve of all that I do, but they’re generally compliant. However, that doesn’t mean they won’t fight us if they disagree with something. We can expect them to push back if they believe it’s necessary.”

“And, I take it that communications with Sreng are bad enough that we can’t ask them super nicely to please stop making swipes at our border?”

“Correct. After the war, Sylvain had made it a known point to me that he wanted to improve relations with them. Felix approved.”

“He didn’t get very far, did he?”

“Unfortunately, no. He made several attempts to establish an open communication, but was rebuffed each time.”

“Great.” Claude leans his head back. “I’m guessing if they’re being actively hostile, they especially aren’t interested in listening to us now.”

“We can try,” Dimitri insists softly. “We can always try.”

“How awfully optimistic.”

“Isn’t that better than letting us fall to more war?”

Claude studies Dimitri out of the corner of his eye. His shoulders are drawn close, hands laced together and clenched tightly.

“I…I cannot stand the thought of more of it.”

A log crackles in the fire, the little flare of sparks glinting in his somber eye.

Dimitri is trying. Claude must try too.

“Look,” He says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “We’ll keep trying. Remember, this conference is only for preparation purposes. Worst case scenario. If there’s a way for us to avoid it, we will.”

Dimitri pulls his view from the floor to Claude, who sees just how worn he looks from just the thought.

War has ripped so much from them both, and from countless others; countless others who still live, who depend on them to make sure they stay that way. More than they can fathom rests on their battle hardened shoulders.

But mountains can break, and so can hearts, and Dimitri’s, held in his palm and reflected in his brilliantly blue eye, is, in some ways, more tender than most. Fractured and split to pieces in ways that he can’t imagine.

And Claude…Claude has to hold those pieces together. That too, is part of his responsibility.

“Dimitri.” He calls, low and hopefully, soothing. Reaching, he places his hand on Dimitri’s arm, just above his wrist, squeezing it gently to get his attention. “I want peace as much as you do. Do you believe me?”

Dimitri nods. “I do.”

“Yeah?”

It is hard to understand how he has won Dimitri’s trust, when he has given so little of himself to earn it. Maybe Felix was more right than he had realized at the time. Maybe this man he’s married is not so much naive as he is hopeful, _wanting_ to place faith in others; to Claude, those can be exclusive, even if unfathomable to him. And right now, he is trying so very hard to be hopeful, even as it seems his thoughts are taking dark and twisted paths, the fear shadowing his handsome face.

“If I did not,” Dimitri’s voice is as hushed as his smile, struggling to make its way across his mouth, “I would not have accepted your proposal.”

“Oh? That was the deciding factor, and not my pretty face?”

He’s trying to make Dimitri laugh, and it gets him a small one; still a little shaky, but it makes the smile slightly more convincing.

Dimitri’s face is also rather pretty when he smiles, the ends of his dark umber eyelashes catching gold in the firelight.

Not that it has anything to do with war and peace.

“It helped.” Dimitri jokes back, “If that makes you feel better.”

“Well, not when you’re just humoring me.”

His hands have loosened a little, the knuckles not quite so white; Claude ventures there’s even a little color in his cheeks. The muscles of Dimitri’s forearm beneath his hand relax, just a little. Not enough, but it’ll do for now.

“By the way, I noticed you got your hair trimmed.”

“Ah, yes,” Dimitri’s free hand automatically goes to it, “I didn’t want to look unkempt for the council.”

“Lemme see.”

Obediently, Dimitri leans forward, Claude moving his hand up to run through it a bit, looking at the ends and seeing how neatly it’s been layered.

“Looks good.” He murmurs. “Who did it?”

“Dedue.”

“First he prunes the gardens, then he prunes your hair.”

Dimitri chuckles again. A little stuttering, as though nervous.

Claude tilts his head to try and see the back better, Dimitri dutifully bowing his head to the side to compensate for his height.

His hair is fine. Soft. Almost like down, slipping easily between Claude’s fingertips, following the locks down to where it tapers by his jaw, and down his neck.

Stops.

Dimitri turns his face up, and sky meets forest.

Claude hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten, how far the fireplace has chased the chill of night.

War and kingship had left their tracks on Dimitri’s still-young face, in the slight crease between his brow, the permanent black smudged around his tired eye, the downturn of his mouth.

For a moment, Claude wants to trace every one of them.

Faintly, he wonders what Dimitri is seeing on his own. What it is he _wants_ to see, and if it holds up to what is really there.

“Don’t worry,” Claude smiles, and Dimitri blinks against the sudden break in the silence. “You’ll look very dashing tomorrow.”

Dimitri’s eye goes wide, before he drops it to the floor between them.

“You jest.”

He pulls away then, carefully. His cheek brushes against Claude’s fingers, who brings his hand back, resisting the urge to curl them into his palm.

•••❂❂❂•••

Shortly after, they retire for the night.

The routine has become mostly familiar. They’re a little more in step, more in sync when they slide into bed and wish each other goodnight with the fading smoke of the last lamp they put out.

Dimitri is still when he’s awake, and tosses and turns when he sleeps.

Claude braces himself each time, but slowly, he’s beginning to do it less.

He’d started, somewhere along the way, to count Dimitri’s breaths as a way to pass the time.

Now, he’s begun to fall asleep to the rhythm.

•••❂❂❂•••

The next day is pouring rain, which makes for poor morale when gathering to discuss wartime strategies. All morning, heavy droplets make rivers down the windows, while autumn chill whispers through the halls.

Still, the last of the garden’s blooms stand bright through cold, ashen overcast.

Dimitri watches them sway to sweeps of rain and wind, quiet for most of the morning, and Claude lets him be.

Around noon, a servant comes to announce the arrival of the Archbishop.

“Gods above, she’s strict.” He comments as they make their way down the hallway, watching Ingrid instructing her students, down in the yard. Her shouts and commands come clear, steady even through the storm.

“They must be prepared for all conditions.” Dimitri replies softly, pausing by the window to survey them.

“You’re right, of course.” Claude concedes. “She wouldn’t allow our guards to be anything but the finest.”

Byleth is standing when they enter, Seteth ever vigilant by their side. They turn as the kings enter, and glide over in all their uncanny grace, taking their hands in their assuring grasp.

“Hey, Teach.” Claude jokes and ruffles their hair a bit with his free one, their smile ripe with affection.

No words are needed for Dimitri though, who opens his mouth to, probably, offer a proper greeting before Byleth simply shakes their head, and he gratefully goes quiet again.

Claude had tried to assure Dimitri it was purely for planning purposes, yet there’s no getting around that if war weren’t a real possibility, they would not be meeting today.

Officially, the Church of Seiros is independent of most political matters, and they’re here today to primarily spectate. But seeing as many of their operations have intertwined with the Kingdom’s, any dramatic changes to them would have to be taken into consideration.

Not long after that, Felix and Sylvain arrive, not nearly as glum as the weather but tension written in the lines between the former’s silences and the latter’s jokes.

All together, they make their way to the meeting room. It’s a hall with high molded ceilings, all four walls plated with dark oak panels, a matching, massive table in its center. Chairs with tall, rigid backs are set along its length as neatly as chess pieces. The carpet beneath is worn thinner than any other in the palace, its faded tapestry of frolicking animals and a thousand little vines trampled beneath a history of war.

The servants are just finishing their preparations, with pitchers of water and glasses laid carefully at each seat, modestly bowing before they slip out of the room.

Dedue has just gotten there himself, Dimitri insisting that he take the seat beside him.

“There are some who would not take kindly to a Duscur native by your side.” He reminds Dimitri, who simply scowls and curtly replies,

“Then they are people whose opinions I have no use for.”

Claude doesn’t remark on it, simply listening to their bickering before Dimitri gets his way and Dedue sits on the other side of him.

“Gonna need something stronger than water to get through this nonsense.” Sylvain remarks with a sip, sitting leisurely back in his seat.

“Way ahead of you.” Byleth shakes a flask at him, and he almost chokes on a laugh.

“ _Byleth!_ ” Seteth hisses. “You _didn’t!”_

“What? You holding out? Give that here.” Sylvain holds out his hands and Byleth tosses it to him to catch.

“Great, let’s all be sloshed when discussing war strategies.” Claude remarks as he wipes down his pen nib, Dimitri rubbing his temples beside him.

Felix is giving Sylvain an extremely unamused glare, who takes one swig and wordlessly offers it to him.

“Are you _stupid?_ ” He says instead, and Sylvain shrugs, recorking it before throwing it back over to Byleth.

“Probably.”

Gradually, the rest of the attendants file in. Ingrid arrives, taking the empty seat beside Felix, the three exchange pleasantries. That is, before Ingrid apparently smells the whiff of brandy on Sylvain’s breath and is definitely closer to decking him in a room full of envoys than she ought to be.

A few other of the minor nobles and lords from both territories arrive and take their seats, murmurs making the rounds, as do stiff greetings and handshakes.

Yet, as soon as the senior Gautiers enter the room, Claude almost wishes Felix had partaken of the alcohol himself, with how fiercely his hackles rise.

Arwel Gautier is an imposing man, broad chested and broad shouldered, the bold red of his hair swept back, specks of gray glinting around his temples, the Gautier crest boldly emblazoned on the brooch at his throat. His wife, Ilona, is barely up to his shoulder, her sienna eyes deep as a river’s depths, and every bit as dangerous. Dark brown hair is neatly combed back into a thick ponytail that reaches near the middle of her back. A well fitting doublet reaches her knees, above leather riding boots.

They first approach Dimitri and Claude to give their respects.

“We humbly apologize for not being able to attend the wedding,” Illona Gautier tells him, “I had hoped to meet His Majesty, King Dimitri’s noble husband, under circumstances better than these.”

Their words are said with practiced warmth and grace, but carry none of its comfort.

“Please, think nothing of it.” Dimitri replies politely, and goes on to assure them their absence was understood, but wholly missed.

Claude has a hunch Dimitri is lying out of his ass.

Towards their son, they exchange a perfunctory nod before taking their seats opposite the table. They completely neglect the man whom he’s seated beside.

Felix doesn’t acknowledge them either, despite how tightly his mouth is pressed.

Claude keeps a subtle watch on the interaction and leans over to comment under his breath, “That’s not a promising start.”

“That is always how they’ve been.” Dimitri murmurs back. “Pride before anything else.”

Due to the subject of the conference, the heads of the Fraldarius and Gautier territories will have the strongest voices in the room today. Representatives from their territories are here to lend their voices, but it is the lords who carry the most weight, and it doesn’t bode well that right before they are set to begin, the frosty waters already smell of sour, cloying poison.

Above the mantle at the other end of the hall hangs an enormous clock, marble faced and embossed with dark copper numerals. It sits in an elaborate wreath of metalwork, its hands ticking down the seconds to the start of their first Not-Quite-War Conference.

Claude eyes it warily, and straightens his sheets of parchment.

He can only hope it goes smoothly.

—

It doesn’t.

—

“Let’s start by going over what we do know, and the situation at hand.” Claude suggests, thinking it as plain and safe a start as any.

Skirmishes at the borders aren’t something particularly new. Sreng had mounted a few concerted attacks on Gautier and Fraldarius during the war, and stepped back when all were unsuccessful.

The recent attacks that had kicked up again along the Fraldarius border had appeared isolated at first, but have steadily become routine. No serious sieges had been launched…yet. It had been Felix’s concern that they eventually would be, that he had brought his report to Dimitri in person last year.

By contrast, the Gautier territory had seen no uptick in attacks, only the occasional altercation. The balance remains tense as ever, but no notable efforts had been made against them.

“We ought to strike first.” Baron Saussec proposes. He maintains a small lordship in the southwest Gautier territory, near the coast. “We have numbers and we have power. They’re likely attacking when they think we are weak, and if we prove our strength, they will recede.”

“Absolutely not.” Dimitri’s rebuke comes swiftly. “We will not be the aggressors.”

“Your Majesty,” Another lord offers, “He may have a point. They think we are a weakened state, and that’s likely the cause for their efforts against us now.”

“Are we not one?” Dimitri’s eye narrows, “We have just barely begun to recover from a long and terrible war.”

“Suggesting we strike them is rather easy for you to say.” Viscountess Chaugre rebukes. “It is _our_ border that has been struck, and no one in my territory harbors any inclination of beginning a new cycle of violence, and we are the ones who should want retaliation, of all people.”

It’s only the first roadblock of the day.

“What I would like to know,” Claude studies the map, at the marks signifying attacks have been bunched together along Fraldarius border, to barely a sparse handful along Gautier’s, “Is why they are focusing their efforts along the Fraldarius territory, especially considering the terrain. It’s mountains are steeper, aren’t they? That makes it difficult to attack, so what’s the point?”

“The Margraves Gautier are a long-established strength,” One lord helpfully supplies, having _vastly_ misunderstood his inquiry, “The late Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius was known by them as a fearsome enemy, not to be trifled with. With his passing, they probably think it the best time.”

Claude internally cringes. It’s difficult not to look at Felix, but he can already feel the dark clouds brewing.

“Sure,” He tries, “Entrenched powers can be a factor. But these are sustained attacks, and the current Duke Fraldarius has clearly made himself no easy target. So what do they have to gain by throwing themselves at him over and over?”

“The eastern coast faces Sreng’s southernmost territory.” Ingrid notes. “Is it possible they are trying to reclaim the region in order to make an easier pathway for themselves by sea? The ease by which they could transport soldiers and supplies would vastly affect any future battles we see with them.”

“It’s possible.” Dimitri muses. To Felix, he asks, “How are your defenses on the coast?”

“For now, we have closed the northernmost port. The coming winter will make travel there difficult anyway. We’ve focused resources into rebuilding the towns around the remaining two harbors.”

“And you’ve left the abandoned harbor unguarded?”

Felix’s attention snaps to Armel, his mouth tightening before he grits out, “Hardly. The forts there are manned.”

“By how many? And how will you be sustaining it without the resources you replenish via the business you’ve lost from the port’s closure?”

“That’s not important to the topic at hand,” Claude intervenes smoothly, “Leave him to handle his territory’s financial affairs. What we’re concerned with as of this moment is Sreng and their aggression. Lady Galatea aptly has pointed out the possibility of an attack from the sea, and he’s assured us that preparations have been made.”

“Your Majesty, it will be a concern if he runs his coffers dry and is forced to ask the Kingdom for financial aid before the first arrow of the war is loosed.”

“Noted. Can I ask about their nautical capabilities?”

“They’re not particularly known for a strong navy.” Sylvain answers, even and calm beside Felix, whose jaw is locked with displeasure. “We can’t completely rule it out, of course. Better safe than sorry. But traditionally, it’s not their preferred method of combat.”

Sreng warriors value discipline among their small, highly trained units. Several factions have their own specialties, but the dominant favorite is polearms; one-handed short spears and javelins that could be wielded along shields, and long halberds and glaives.

“How quickly would we know if they were to try?”

“Very.” Felix answers confidently. “The roads are in good condition, and there are over a dozen relay points by which to send word.”

Satisfied, Dimitri nods, “I would, however, like to go back to Claude’s initial inquiry. Why are they focusing so strongly on the Fraldarius border?”

“From what Felix has given us in his reports,” Claude strokes his chin in thought. “It doesn’t strike me that they’re particularly _trying_ . If they wanted to do some real damage, they could, but they’re not. They _are_ already familiar with how Gautier works. Is it possible that they’re simply gathering information?”

“Information for what?” One of the nobles interjects. “Fraldarius’ hold is nothing new.”

“No, but Felix himself is an unknown to them. Their aim could be to learn what they’re up against; it’s what I would do, if I were interested in conquering territory.”

“Perhaps it would be wise to have more soldiers take up residence in the towns close to the border.” Dedue suggests. “For the protection of the citizens, if they decide to invade.”

“We _do_ have some very capable recruits about to finish training,” Ingrid adds. “They could learn from the well-trained Fraldarius soldiers on the field.”

“Under different circumstances, I’d have no objection. But we don’t have the luxury of inexperienced fighters.” Felix disagrees. “They’ll be more a hindrance than anything else.”

“Then,” Claude adds, “Maybe we can pull on some of the battalions stationed along the main roads to send up there, and replace them with the recruits, once Ingrid thinks they’re ready. The main threat is petty banditry, it’s a waste for veteran knights and a good start for the rookies.”

“Keep in mind we are coming upon winter.” Felix warns, “Desperation will be higher in harsher weather. I can rearrange our defenses to focus along the border, and avoid taking more troops altogether.”

“Duke Fraldarius has proven himself a capable man of war,” Illona Gautier enunciates every syllable carefully, every attention in the room drawn to her words. She doesn’t look away from Felix, who meets her gaze with a suspicious one, narrowed to sparking embers. “However, his successes during the War of Unification under His Majesty’s leadership do not equal victory against a smattering of bouts with Sreng’s bored warriors. That is a dangerous confidence, you have.”

The language is calculated and intentional. In one statement, she has undermined his experience, reminded the room of his place below the Crown, and belittled his success at fending off their would-be invaders.

“I’ve grown up with Sreng’s threats.” Felix replies curtly, “I’m hardly a stranger to dealing with them.”

“Perhaps, but you have only been leading the defense against them in your territory for a mere handful of years.” She replies coolly. “Say the word, and we would be happy to lend you our aid and experience.”

“I don’t need your help.” His tone is quick, biting.

“Our offer is one you should consider. As is the one graciously offered by His Highness'.” Armel Gautier protests, his voice firm and solid, flint grating against stone. “We should be combining forces, for the benefit of all.”

They know it will make them seem reasonable. They know Felix will refuse.

“I’ll think about it.” Felix snarls, very clear that he won’t be.

The discussion turns in circles from there. More than once, Dedue and Dimitri intervene to urge the conversation forward, until it inevitably gets derailed by inane bickering, or unhelpful suggestions from the minor nobles, whose loyalty to their own territory’s lords oversteps concern for the whole.

Sylvain strategically interjects to try and keep things civil, while Ingrid skillfully maneuvers the conversation back towards Sreng, pointing out potential areas of improvement, which ultimately leads back to side swipes across both lines.

Claude listens.

•••❂❂❂•••

“ _Gautier._ ” He groans later, running his hands down his face as he slides down his seat. “Your _parents._ ”

“Ha! I know, they’re awful, aren’t they?”

“This isn’t _funny,_ Sylvain.” Ingrid smacks his leg.

“It’s extremely and distinctly not-funny.” He agrees.

Felix had stalked out almost immediately after the meeting had been called for the day. Right now, he’s probably tormenting whoever of Ingrid and Dedue’s unfortunate recruits are still meandering around in the training grounds by this time of the evening.

“So are they trying to pick a fight with Felix because he stole their son whom they love so very much, or did he do something to them in a past life?”

“Definitely the past life thing.”

“In all seriousness. We can’t make any progress on this conference _or_ build a solid defense if Felix and your parents can’t get along. It’s not the time or place for personal feelings.”

“I know, I know. Believe me, this is Felix holding back.”

“Oh, _that_ I believe.” Claude assures him. “Pretty sure the entire room heard him grinding his teeth.”

“I can’t fathom why this has become so complicated.” Dimitri frowns. “If anything, this should have been easy. With you and Felix together, one would think that relations between the territories would have been a simpler matter.”

“What can you do? They want to control everyone and everything.” Sylvain shrugs. “They think they know best because they’ve been holding it down forever and a day.”

“But if you…” Dimitri clears his throat. “If you and Felix were to, er…”

Sylvain smiles patiently, eyes warming over for the first time that day. “Go on, you can say it.”

“If you were to…marry—”

Ingrid chokes on her tea and Claude blinks.

“—Then it should only strengthen the relationship between the territories.”

“You’d think that.”

Sylvain laughs, but the discomfort in Dimitri and Ingrid’s gestures is clear.

“I’m guessing they won’t consider passing down to a cousin or something, if no other Crests have presented in the family.”

“You’ve guessed right!” Sylvain points at Claude in mock-cheer, as if he’s won a prize. “They’re all pissed off that Felix has gone and swiped me from them. Not to mention that they were _very_ disappointed that I didn’t take the chance during all my time in Fraldarius to wrangle Felix under the general Gautier thumb. So basically, the reason for a lot of Felix’s current aggravation is, to sum it up, me. No surprise.”

Green eyes knowing and solemn, Ingrid gazes at Sylvain. “It ruins their line of succession. Without Felix bending to them, they think they’re losing you to Fraldarius, rather than his marrying into Gautier.”

“It wouldn’t have to mean that, but unfortunately, they’re not creative enough to see it any other way.” Sylvain laughs again. It’s a dry, frustrated laugh, more bitter than sweet. “I don’t know why they didn’t just pop out another kid when they had the chance, but alas, all their hopes are still, to this day, still placed on their remaining, good old idiot son.”

With a dramatic _there you have it_ sweep of his arms, Sylvain leans forward to pour himself a generous glass of wine.

Two braziers glow with warmth from each corner of the room. Ingrid stands to feed another few chips of wood to the glowing fire before reseating herself. As she tends to do when she’s anxious, she starts snacking, nibbling a plum that she plucks from the fruit bowl the servants brought in with their tea.

“Well,” Dimitri smiles softly, affectionate. “They were indeed very mistaken to think that Felix’s will could be so easily swayed.”

“It’s like they still think he’s a little boy or something.” Sylvain shrugs. “Even though he could outduel and out-maneuver damn near anyone in the entire country. Like he didn’t wade through the war like the rest of us.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Ingrid asks, uncertain. “Not that I think he can’t handle your parents, but it’s hard to be cordial to people who are set on disrespecting you, and he doesn’t mince his words on a _good_ day.”

“That’s more of an _us_ problem than it is a Felix problem, when it comes down to it.” Claude lays his cheek in his palm. “Ultimately, it’s going to fall on us to make it work, somehow. If Sylvain’s parents don’t let up, we’re just going to have to be prepared for when he inevitably snaps and starts swinging.”

“I’m honestly a little surprised he’s made it this far.” She adds with a short laugh behind her hand. “He’s not really keeping his cool, but he’s holding it together.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how much longer we can count on his patience.”

“He’s definitely learned a little more of it than he used to.” A genuine smile floods Sylvain’s fake one. A pause, a hesitation, and then, “I’m surprised you never asked who Elwin is.”

Dimitri glances up. “Elwin? I assumed he must have been one of the household staff’s children, or one from the village. Is he not?”

“Nope. He’s ours.”

“…OH _shit—”_ Claude jerks up in his seat. “Wait, wait, _wait,_ you have a kid?”

Dimitri blinks, eyes wide. “Yours? Yours and Felix’s?”

“…Sylvain, you _better_ not tell me that he’s from one of your illicit trysts—”

“Goddess above Ingrid, _no!_ Must you always think the worst of me first?! And yes, Dimitri, _ours-_ ours. Adopted. Well, unofficially, at the moment, but. You know.”

“I… _well._ ” Grinning wider as the shock starts to wear off, Dimitri almost finds himself at a loss for words. “This is a surprise! My sincerest congratulations.”

“I can’t believe you good-for-nothings _kept_ this from us!” Mocking offense, or perhaps not actually pretending, Ingrid leaps from her seat to repeatedly punch Sylvain in the shoulder, who merely laughs and tries in vain to defend himself. “How could you?! We’ve got a nephew, and you didn’t even tell us!”

“Easy, easy Ingie,” Sylvain manages to catch her hands, as he presses apologetic kisses to her hands, shoulders still shaking from laughter. “We’re trying not to let it out too much, yet. Who knows how my parents would take _that,_ or what they would do about it. We wanted to bring him here, actually, but…you know. It was risky.”

“If I’d _known…_ ” Still beaming, Dimitri leans in, fascinated. “What made you decide it was time?”

“Well…we didn’t.” Sylvain wraps an arm around Ingrid’s waist and somehow manages to stick it, drawing her close while she sighs and ruffles his hair as the troublesome sibling he’s always been. “We met him when we went with Annette to visit Mercedes’ church. They’d taken in a lot of orphans, he was among the bunch, and it just…happened.”

“ _Just happened_ , huh?” Claude grins, more than a little amused, “How does adopting a kid _just happen?_ ”

“Just did. I mean, I hadn’t thought about kids. Fe hadn’t, either. Never discussed it. But…I dunno. I kept going back to him, even with a dozen other little ones running around. I thought I was nuts, like, I was _losing_ it. You don’t think something like that happens to you, right?…But then finally, I had to know if it was just me. And I put him in Fe’s arms, and it was almost instant. He looked like someone had up and slapped him silly, but I watched him fall in love right on the spot.”

Happiness, genuine happiness, is a largely unfamiliar shade on Sylvain. But it’s there, a color more whole than he has seemed in such a long time, content as he rests his head against Ingrid’s side.

“So…I knew it wasn’t just me. We talked it out, spoke to the head priest, and when we left, we had an extra little bundle of joy to take back up with us.”

“Never thought I’d hear such sentiment from you, of all people.” She plays with his hair a bit, fingers stroking through licks of flame. “But I’m still not forgiving either of you for not saying anything.”

Smiling just a bit wider, Sylvain concedes, “That’s fair. He did say I could tell you guys, by the way. Sorta think he just didn’t want to be in the room for it.”

“How dare we know he loves his adopted son.” Claude jokes, sarcastic, even with how he adds, “But, you’ll make good parents. I’m sure of it. Can’t wait to meet the little kitten.”

“We’ll try. I guess that’s all we can do.”

“You will.” Dimitri interjects, gentle and confident, earning a surprised glance from Sylvain. Ingrid’s smile widens.

“I know you will. You are loyal and caring people. Goodness knows you have been invaluable, irreplaceable friends to me, all this time…you deserve to have a family that will make your days together all the more blessed.”

“Woah. Dimitri. That’s…” Suddenly, oddly bashful, Sylvain clears his throat and sits up a little straighter, shooting glances between Dimitri and Claude with a devilish smirk. It’s a far more familiar look for him.

“What about you two, huh? Any princes, princesses we should know about?”

The smile drops from Dimitri’s face in favor of flustered shock, which is clearly the reaction he was going for, given the way he roars with laughter.

“Mind your business, Gautier.” Claude flings a cushion at him.

•••❂❂❂•••

Outside, the world has gone pitch black with night, and heavy rain clouds that have yet to cease. Aside from the few, blurry dabs of light in the distance from the city, there is nothing to see in the darkness, but Dimitri looks anyway.

Droplets of water glow by the lamplight, tracing amber trails of water down the windowpane. Absentmindedly, he starts to watch, barely conscious of the way Claude is chattering as he emerges from behind the privacy screen, just adjusting the sleeves over his wrist.

“You know, after we return from our trip out to the old Empire, I think we ought to go up and see the border ourselves. I’ve never been to either Gautier or Fraldarius’ territory, and I ought to be familiar with them. Ugh, it’ll be winter by then, too. How much colder is it up there than _here_ , because it’s already cold enough here as it is…Dimitri? You alright over there?”

At the sound of his name, he looks over to see Claude watching him, hint of a frown framed by damp locks of freshly washed hair, falling in errant curls about his face.

“Yes.” Even he thinks it sounds a bit hollow, “I’m alright. Just a bit tired.”

Unconvinced, Claude makes his way over, giving a long look out the window before he carefully unties the curtain to let it drop closed.

“You’ve been a little off for a few days, now.”

He’s not wrong; Dimitri can feel the weight in his bones, the drag of his overly tense shoulders. As if a battered, rusted weathervane in the storm, he’s not sure which way to turn.

Inquisitive, Claude’s eyes look into Dimitri’s; they’ve started reminding him of the polished jade stones that sometimes appear at markets. Richly colored, complex. Layered hues that would change by with angle and light if one picked it up to turn over and look. The stone isn’t a favorite among Faergheus nobles, but he thinks them lovely.

“Do you think so?”

“Yeah. Hate to say it, if you were trying to hide it, but. I noticed.”

There’s little use in trying to lie to him. He’s too perceptive by half, and Dimitri has never been a gifted liar.

“I suppose I have been.”

“You’ve been a little spacey.” Claude pushes the hair out of his face, dark strands curling about his fingers. “ _And_ a little quiet. So, what’s up?”

Has he really?

“Nothing in particular,” Dimitri admits, watching the flickering shadows of the candlelight play about the line of Claude’s collarbone. It’s easier than looking into his face, where he’s afraid that too much will be too easy for him to see. “Maybe it’s the weather.”

It’s a terribly stupid excuse to try and give, and for a moment, he braces himself to be called out on it. But a few tender seconds drift by, and Claude’s expression only softens.

“Well. There is a lot going on.” He concedes, pressing a hand to Dimitri’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get some sleep. Nothing like a good rest to cure a sour mood.”

Dimitri nods, letting himself be gently steered from the window. He excuses himself to the bathroom to ready himself for bed, relieved of the weight of his stiff jacket, vest, gloves.

He had been nervous to be without them, too, at first. His hands are scarred and rough, look monstrously large without the cover of dark leather, and remind him often of the terrible things he has done with them.

But there’s little he can do about that; he can hardly sleep with them on.

Claude is at the desk when he exits, reading yet again beside his lamp.

“What was that about getting some sleep?”

“Alright, alright, alright.” Claude chuckles and flips the book closed. “I’m coming.”

They put out the last lamp beside the bed, settle beneath the covers, cradled beneath the darkness of the room.

•••❂❂❂•••

Claude wakes to a scream.

Something sharp jabs into his back, and his reaction comes instinctively, instantly; he turns over, knee swinging out to catch anyone who might be there.

His assailant is where Dimitri should be, and his hand shoots out right as he finds solid form, finding and pressing to a throat while he settles his weight over them, other hand drawing back, about to— 

His assailant _is_ Dimitri, who promptly goes still beneath him, eyes wide and jaw slack while he stares up at him in shock, panting harshly against Claude’s palm.

It takes a moment for Claude to register, and then he loosens his grip, sliding his hand off Dimitri’s flexing throat. He lets out a strange cross between groan and sigh as he lets his head hang between his shoulders, forehead thumping against Dimitri’s heaving chest.

“Gods above, Dimitri. You scared the living hell out of me.”

_If I still kept a dagger on me during the night—I could’ve—_

“I—I’m—sorry.” Dimitri half-wheezes out, rushed on his rattling breath. After a moment, he repeats, a touch softer, “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

Claude can feel, hell, he can practically _hear_ Dimitri’s heart beating, rapid and erratic, and he blinks against fine woven linen.

He raises his head, then, to see how Dimitri has gone beyond _pale_ , is white as a full moon, chest still stuttering around his apologies.

“Sorry, it’s—it was just—I didn’t mean to—I think, I think I might have stuck you in my sleep—”

That would explain _that_ , at least, but suddenly it’s the least of his concerns.

“Dimitri,” Claude reaches blindly, briefly glances, finds his hand to grab, finds it trembling beneath his fingers, clutching the sheets below. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Suddenly ashamed, embarrassed, Dimitri turns his head away, his other hand coming up to hide his eyes.

“It was nothing. Just a nightmare.”

Must have been quite a nightmare, to make him shout and thrash around like that. He’d really thought someone had broken in, that he was fighting for their lives.

“Nightmare, huh…” Claude slides his hand up, pressing his fingertips to Dimitri’s pulse along the inside of his wrist, feeling it flutter and beat.

“Yes. I’m sorry I woke you.” Dimitri says brokenly, trying to stitch his tone back into resembling calm. It’s not particularly working. “And you _were_ asleep, for once, weren’t you?”

“Don’t worry about that,” A little alarmed, Claude shifts his weight to balance better, “You’re shaking, your pulse is going a hundred miles a minute. Look at me.”

Slowly, Dimitri obeys, sliding his hand away to turn back towards him, and Claude releases his hand to push his hair back, feeling his forehead for temperature, pressing the back of his fingers under his jaw to feel for heat, swelling, only feeling the goosebumps raised on the pale, delicate skin.

“What are you…?”

“Just checking.”

Propping himself up to lean in, he studies Dimitri’s good eye, that it’s clear and focused. No poison, no sickness. Just cold, cruel, unfeeling panic pumping through Dimitri’s beaten heart.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri half-whispers again, as though he has nothing else to offer. “It wasn’t my intention to—”

“Dimitri, enough with the apologies.” Claude sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. Then he sits up, back on his ankles—to be made very conscious of how he’s settled across Dimitri’s hips, waist caught between his knees that _would_ have been the start to a grapple— 

Claude rolls off, his back hitting the mattress. One more sigh lets out what he thinks is the last of the adrenaline, while Dimitri stays silent beside him, staring at the ceiling. Mouth still tight around, probably, another apology.

“You okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” Dimitri answers automatically. It’s a line that Claude hears too often. It’s like a reflex, and it’s started to read more and more like a lie.

_You don’t sound fine._

“This happen often?” Claude asks, folding his arm beneath his head.

“Not quite so…loudly.”

“So…that’s a yes?”

Rainfall is still splattering against the windows, louder than before. Steady, and disrupting, still soothing promises against the glass. A flash of lightning blurs the room in haze for an instant before a roll of thunder follows with a low growl. 

Dimitri doesn’t answer him. Simply turns onto his side, shoulders hunched, the pale of his skin and hair marking his outline against the dark. Retreated somewhere into his mind that Claude knows but doesn’t, in nightmares that once were real. Solace in silence that one’s mind isn’t always kind enough to give.

In rest that is anything but, in a skin that doesn’t feel like your own, hurts at every touch.

“Dimitri.”

Dimitri doesn’t reply, and that is, probably, enough for him to know.

_He doesn’t often sleep through the night._

And suddenly, it makes sense how the shadows around Dimitri’s eyes never heal.

_…All this time I thought I was the only one who couldn’t sleep._

For the rest of the night, Claude listens to uneasy shuddering, half-sighs of anguish. Sheets rustling over a sleepless king, who utters confessions and apologies implicit on every pained breath.

To who or what, he doesn’t know.

•••❂❂❂•••

The second day of discussions don’t go any better.

More backhanded compliments, more barely veiled disdain. Claude and Dimitri had spoken privately before they arrived for the day. Without a compromise or resolution to the tension, a clash would happen sooner or later, unless they took a more decisive approach to stitching an alliance together.

Personal squabbles can’t risk the peace they’ve only just barely won, and when down to the bare bones of it, they trust that both Felix, along with Sylvain, and the Gautiers, ultimately want the best for Fodlan.

“I don’t envy Sylvain.” Claude confessed. “He’s trying to play the field with his parents while keeping Felix in check.”

Having no tolerance for the politics at play, Felix is still clever enough to understand them, know when he’s being insulted, but lacks the tact or care to work it to his favor.

Sylvain has made up for that lack, so far. But Armel and Ilona Gautier are unreserved and strategic in their snipes, careful not to overstep so much that it’s obvious enough to warrant rebuke. But hour by hour, they’re whittling down any and all merit to Felix’s name, citing his inexperience, his (supposed) reliance on Dimitri post-war, his lack of wisdom in comparison to his late father. It’s not much a surprise when, as Claude predicted, Felix’s temper finally gives out at long last, on the third day.

A long abandoned fort stands perfectly along the Gautier-Fraldarius border. Dimitri and Claude propose reviving it, repurposing it to be a meeting and supply point between the two, populated by knights of both sides.

“Fraldarius doesn’t have the numbers to contribute meaningfully to such a large post.” Armel points out. “Let us handle the fort, and we will see it into a stronghold.”

Narrowing dangerously, Felix’s eyes flash warning. “Moving so many of your own off the Sreng-Gautier border is foolish.”

_Oh boy._ Claude can see the signs, and subtly nudges Dimitri’s leg under the table.

He’s able to catch his eye, Dimitri’s mouth going tense with the acknowledgement. Beside him, Ingrid’s hands are clenched on the table, clearly ready to intervene with how she’s instinctively leaning towards him.

“We have numbers that you don’t.” Ilona Gautier reasons. “Let us compensate. They’ll be ample backup for your soldiers in the event of a large scale attack from Sreng forces.”

“It’s not needed.” Felix snaps back. “What if your own border is struck with such a siege?”

“We haven’t seen any indication that they will. Activity has been a minimum, on our side.” Armel’s drawing him in like a riptide, and too quickly for anyone to stop it, he adds, “They are provoking you, Duke Fraldarius, likely taking to heart your reputation for a volatile temper—”

Sylvain and Ingrid both make a move to grab him, but Felix is suddenly on his feet, chair clattering away from him as he throws off their hands.

“Is that why I’ve been fending off their attacks for the past year?! If I were so reckless, why haven’t I simply stormed their fortress across the river?”

He’s snarling, fangs on full display while the Gautier’s faces darken at the disrespect, but maintain their facade. After all, this is them finally winning.

“We are holding our border without your unwanted guidance. Don’t presume to tell _me_ how to run my own territory’s forces—”

“Duke Fraldarius,” Dedue cuts in, calm but firm. “Your frustration is understandable and well heard. Please, have a seat.”

Felix seems to bite his tongue at the coolant to his fire that is Dedue’s steady timber. Still, he does not sit, fists clenched and glaring directly across at his agitaters. They remain as immovable as ever, meeting his anger with stone.

No one in the room moves, barely breathes. There is just Felix’s chest, rising and falling with his aggravation, muscles clenching around his jaw, the deafening indifference of the Gautiers, and the air, curdling with mutual, toxic derision.

“You sense something amiss, don’t you?”

It’s the first time Byleth has spoken the entire conference. With the tension of the room, their words prove a jarring disruption, eerily level and wholly unbothered.

They’re speaking to Felix, ignoring his raised anger, their countenance neutral but for the concern just barely present in their brow, reflected in the sea of their eyes.

“Something is wrong,” They say carefully, now studying the map, “With the way they are attacking.”

Felix’s shoulders relax, but only slightly. He looks at Byleth, draws in their calm, and nods.

“What do you mean?”

Byleth hums, tapping a gloved finger to their jaw. “It’s too…easy.”

“Easy?”

Byleth looks across the expanse of the table, strewn with maps and papers, notes, pens and quills and dregs of patience from a room of exhausted diplomats.

“I think Claude had the right of it,” They say, tilting their head. “It’s what you would do to gather information on your enemy. But I think there is something else going on. For whatever my word is worth on Kingdom matters.”

Their word is worth gold, with how esteemed they proved themselves in the war, with how closely King Dimitri holds them in his counsel. They’re the only one able to get away with addressing anyone else without their titles.

Despite their famous battle prowess, Byleth is tranquil as an underwater current, all confidence in their power. Challenging, in the unbothered lilt to their words, daring anyone to disrupt the quiet storm they gather.

“Felix has always had a good instinct about these things.” They say, “I think he’s realized this, and doesn’t want to carelessly make plans without further insight as to Sreng’s intentions. We could be moving right into a trap, if we step in any one direction without that.”

“On what is Duke Fraldarius basing this? Or the good Archbishop, who has never dealt with Sreng? A _hunch_ is not enough to—”

“Enough.”

The word alone is enough of a command.

Dimitri stands, his displeasure darkly unfurling like a cloud, heavy with thunder and lightning.

“Three days,” All but growling, “ _Three days,_ we have sat in this room to little avail, to strategize in case of a Sreng invasion or siege. Petty slights have no place at this table in the face of possible war. As diplomatically and fairly as we have tried to bring us to compromise, I see that as things are, it cannot be done. So, no more.”

The initial wave of Dimitri’s temper passes over, but his annoyance is palatable as the taste of coming rain in the air.

“We’ve heard everyone’s thoughts. _Seiros above,_ have we heard everyone’s thoughts.” Claude casually taps his pen on his paper. “But, well, seems we’re not all ready to get along. Dimitri and I will discuss everything worthwhile that has been brought to our attention over the duration of this conference. We’ll meet once more tomorrow morning to tell you the plan with respect to Sreng. Our decisions will be final, and we expect cooperation. If that’s all clear enough, consider yourselves dismissed until then.”

The silence draws out like the long, echoing note of a plucked cello chord. Pulled tight and tense, the air vibrates with unease under which their audience begins to shuffle up and around. Papers are gathered, clothes straightened, the barest of murmurs here and there disappearing beneath the overwhelming malaise still clutching the air.

Felix doesn’t move, ignores when Ingrid tugs at his elbow, looking across the table at his king.

Claude watches him watch Dimitri, a conversation happening that he can’t read being scripted between them. Dimitri’s weariness, Felix’s attentiveness; for once, the thoughts aren’t written across his face. Sharp jaw, sharp mouth; proud brow and intense eyes of worked and reworked, folded amber-gold, seeing deeper than Claude can. For hardly the first time, he wonders of their history.

“Fe,” Sylvain says softly, hand on his shoulder, breaking the moment.

With a weathered, agitated sigh, Felix finally turns, moving to fall in with Ingrid and Sylvain to leave.

Byleth stays seated, as does Seteth. Dimitri murmurs a quiet word for Dedue to remain behind.

Once the room is free of everyone else, Byleth pulls out their flask for a drink, and offers it again.

“Yeah, you know what, I’ll have some of that now.”

“I talked it over with Seteth.” Byleth says as Claude throws back a large swallow of the _strongest_ brandy he’s ever almost choked on, “We can send half a battalion of the Knights of Seiros to allay pressure from both the Fraldarius and Gautier forces. I say that a restored Fort Boreas would make a good place for them to be readily available to anyone who should need the aid.”

“Kings Dimitri and Claude, would you find this acceptable?” Seteth asks, calm as ever.

“More than acceptable.” Dimitri grumbles as he finally falls back into his chair, pressing circles into his temple. “Claude?”

“Details to be decided, I have no objections.”

Byleth nods, Seteth agreeing with a bow of his head.

It takes another stretch of time for them to go over everything, yet again, but with far less interruption and much more decisiveness.

Fort Boreas would be restored and manned by the Knights of Seiros, their numbers to be supplemented by some of Gautier’s soldiers, in case of a decisive attack on Fraldarius by Sreng.

Felix and Sylvain’s forces would be concentrated at their northernmost border and along the coastline, with easy access to the main roads that ran north and south of the territory, alongside evacuation routes should citizens need to flee.

Kingdom soldiers from Fhirdiad would be spared from the capital city, towards the northern border of the territory, taking up camp in the barracks at Itha. Within easy access of Fhirdiad and within striking distance of both Gautier and Fraldarius territories, they would be clear to act as neutral reinforcements in addition to the Knights of Seiros, should the need arise.

“I am ashamed that it had to come to this.” Dimitri lets out a suffering breath, leaning back in his seat and closing his eye briefly. “We cannot govern a room of people to cooperate at a war council.”

“As you said,” Dedue offers, “You attempted to handle the situation civilly. It speaks well of you and his Majesty Claude that you let them speak their piece.”

“I assure you, many meetings of the Church officials look very similarly.” Seteth tells him, smile knowing and kind. “You handled it well, I think.”

“If I handled it _well_ , I would not have lost my temper. I would have been able to manage it from the start.”

“That was you losing your temper? Lies.” Claude laughs. “We tried, Dimitri. _Nice_ doesn’t always work.”

“Yes. You are right.” Turning his head just enough so he can look at Claude, Dimitri admits, “You have wisely warned me as much before, and it took me too long to listen.”

Chuckling, Claude leans his elbows on the table, propping his chin on a loose fist while he scribbles along on his papers.

“It’s all a learning process, Dimitri. We heard, but couldn’t know how nasty things had really gotten until we were in it. Now we know, and now we figure it out.”

“We must.” Dimitri runs his hands over his face. “We _must_. What if it comes to war, and we fall to pieces? We could lose all we have tried to build so far. All that progress, ruined, more lives destroyed. What if— ”

“Hey, hey,” Sitting up, Claude reaches to pull at his elbow, “None of that yet. Nothing’s happened. We’re taking care of it. Literally, right now, we’re handling it. We can’t predict the future. Best we can do is plan, right?”

Allowing his arm to drop, Dimitri’s glance returns to him, exhausted from the weight he’s, yet again, piled onto himself.

“You’re right. Again, you are right.”

From their seat, Byleth observes. They exchange the briefest of glances with Seteth, who subtly returns their knowing smile.

“Does this mean we can adjourn for the day?”

“Goddess and her children above, yes. Yes it does.”

•••❂❂❂•••

Mid-afternoon brings forth a nice bout of sunlight, a welcome break from the two straight days of rain. The air is fresher for it, the ground still a little soft as Claude leads Nylah out to the riding grounds. It’s almost nonsensical for him to hold her reins, being that his weight means about as much to her as any medium sized dog might to him, but everyone else breathes easier when he does.

He lets her roam around to stretch her legs, and reviews commands with her, tossing scraps of meat as reward. She chirps and nuzzles him, playfully batting him with her wings and pushing her snout under his arm. When she’s satisfied in being lavished with affection, she shakes, stretches her wings, and flies, cutting mighty circles and arcs, spinning midair for a span before she comes back down to stare expectantly at him.

“Showing off for me, baby girl?” Claude smiles and scratches along her jaw, letting her eat the rest of the scraps from the pail.

Being around her brings him calm. It’s a routine they both know, and there are never any surprises with her as there are people.

Though, her bullying Dimitri is a bit of a new one. She’d started hissing at him on sight until Claude scolded her out of it, before it became a habit.

A pair of quiet footsteps catch his attention, and he tilts his head back to watch Byleth approach.

“Hey there, Teach.” He greets as they hop atop the fence and swing their legs over, settling onto their perch.

“Hello, little deer.”

Nylah trots over, Byleth holding out their hands to let her nestle into them.

“Hello again, sweet girl.” They croon, petting her huffing snout. “Did you miss me?”

Nylah blinks her big, jeweled eyes at Byleth and licks their hand as a response.

“Ah. Thank you.”

“How is it in there?”

“You were smart to come out here.”

“Yikes. Where’s Dimitri?”

“If I had to guess, he’s probably in one of the lounges, beating himself up.”

“And you’re not glued to his side, looking after him?”

“He’s being looked after.” Byleth says. “I came to look after _you._ ”

Claude blinks, turning from watching Nylah to Byleth’s stoic face. “Me? I don’t need looking after, Teach.”

“Everyone does.” They say simply, and shrug.

Claude makes a thoughtful noise. Dropping his eyes down, he watches a beetle try and fail to crawl over his boot toe, nudging it a bit to send it scurrying off. “I guess. But I’m alright. No need to worry.”

“Hm.”

“Really!”

“Eh.” Byleth shrugs and makes kissy noises at Nylah to get her attention, pressing their forehead to her scaly one. “Someone has to fuss over you.”

“No worries about that, either. Dimitri fusses over me plenty.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure does. He finds just about anything to fret over.”

Byleth smiles, letting Nylah press her head into their lap and stepping closer to curl beside the fence, stroking along what of her neck they can reach.

“That’s his way.” They comment lightly, fondness in every drifting note they speak. “Remember when I said he doesn’t trust himself?”

“I remember.”

“I think he wants to be close to people. Struggles how to. Is afraid of hurting them. Fretting is his way of showing his care.”

“Fretting as a form of showing care…that something you know about, By? Sure sounds like something you deal a lot with.”

“…I’m not sure I like you, anymore.”

Claude throws his head back and laughs, stretching out his shoulders to prop his elbows up on the fence rail. 

“How does Nylah like him?”

“She doesn’t.”

“Oh?”

“She smacked him with her tail last week. A few days ago he came out to find me for something, and she bit his cloak! She’s never acted like that with anyone before.”

“Naughty girl,” Byleth rubs along Nylah’s head, bending over to look her in the eye better. “Are you jealous? Are you mad at Dimitri for stealing your beloved? You don’t like it, do you?”

“What— _By,_ that’s—hey, personal space much?”

Byleth’s leaning towards him, close enough to sniff along his neck.

“You smell like him.”

“I want to know why you know offhand what Dimitri smells like, but actually, with your incredible lack of boundaries with each other, I’m not even surprised.”

“If I can tell, Nylah can tell.” Byleth says simply as they sit back up. “Anyway. That aside, I did want to make sure you’re alright.”

“I assure you that I am.”

“If you say so.”

Nylah purrs, as much as a wyvern can, bumping her snout against Byleth’s knee.

“You two. You’re in opposite seasons, aren’t you?”

“…You wanna translate that for me, Teach?”

Byleth glances at him, tilting their head as though they’re not sure what’s so difficult about it.

“Rarely meeting.” They wave their hand, and though he waits for more, they don’t elaborate any further.

“…Ah. Okay. Got it.”

He doesn’t really get it.

But it’s something to ruminate on, at least, when they watch Nylah take off to soar above them, joyfully screeching.

“Are you happy to be back in Fodlan?”

“Happy? Well…does it matter?” Claude wonders aloud. “It’s what I thought to do, in order to reach my goals faster.”

“Does that mean you’d want to go back to Almyra, if you could?”

“I dunno. Maybe. But what good does thinking about that now accomplish? I’m here for life, for better or worse.”

Byleth doesn’t reply to that, shielding their eyes from the sun with a petite hand. Together, they watch Nylah circle, a dark speck among the remnant clouds.

“I’m kind of surprised you’re not mad at me.”

From the corner of his eyes, Claude catches Byleth turn their face towards him, blank as ever. But when he meets them halfway with his own, he can feel the curiosity radiating off them.

“For using Dimitri. The way I tried to use you.”

Their steely teal gaze doesn’t budge.

With a thoughtful noise, they simply reach into their cloak and pull out a couple of pears, offering one to Claude.

“…Why do you have—?”

“Found it.”

The fruit is tender and sweet, ripe with the height of the season. His teeth go through it easily, and for the time it takes for half of it to be gone, they’re quiet.

“By nature, a political marriage is for mutual benefit, not love.” Byleth remarks. “You say you’re using Dimitri, but that means he’s using you too, right?”

“I guess you’re right, if you put it like that.”

“I’m sure he’s aware of it.” Byleth finishes off their pear, tossing the core into the grass behind them. “Besides. You wanted me to destroy. But you want Dimitri to build.”

Nibbling the last bits of fruit off the stem, Claude doesn’t answer.

Byleth idly swings their leg, boot heel tapping against the wooden post. “Is that really all you are to each other, though?”

“I’d say we’re friends.”

“Well. That’s not too bad, then.”

“You got anything else in that magic coat of yours, By?”

Wordlessly, they fish around in their cloak and produce and unwrap a small loaf of herbed rye bread, half of which they tear off and hand over.

“I hate to be whoever it is who washes your clothes.” Claude comments around a bite.

“I do it myself, thank you very much.”

“Ohh, the all powerful archbishop does their own laundry?”

“The archbishop does, little deer.”

They snack, quietly, until they’re brushing the crumbs from their fingers.

“He said I was noble.”

When Byleth glances at him, he’s looking skyward again, where Nylah has flown over towards the far end of the grounds, above the towering trees.

“I think he was joking, but I’m not really sure. He couldn’t be serious, right? I’m not. Then again, he’s so _horribly_ sincere, maybe he meant it.”

“Why does that bother you?”

“It’s not bothering me. I’m just wondering about it, okay?”

“So it…okay.” Byleth rolls their eyes, but lets it go. “So why are you _wondering_ about it?”

“Because he’s wrong.”

His fingers are tapping against the fence, mouth set in a hard line as he squints against the light.

Not that they can particularly fathom or comprehend why, but people have always trusted Byleth. If they were not unsettled by them, at least. But when they were done being vexed, their trust came.

So comes Claude’s, arguably one of the hardest confidences in all of Fodlan and Almyra alike to win. A king who walks the Fhirdiad royal estate among its many people, and yet, they suspect, largely alone.

“Did you tell him that?”

“Yeah, but, he just. I…I don’t know.” Clenching his bottom lip between his teeth, Claude ignores their attention in favor of looking out towards the fields, where the grasses sway beneath sun-warmed wind.

“He’s wrong.” Claude repeats, softer. “For all he’s doing trying to pick me apart, see what makes me tick, he still hasn’t figured that out.”

“Pick you apart, you say? That’s a funny way of saying your husband is trying to get to know you.”

“No, it’s not like that. More like…augh. Nevermind. It’s not important.”

“I thought you two seemed to be getting along.”

“We are. Mostly. I think.”

“Hmm.”

_Opposite seasons, indeed._

Deciding not to press him further, Byleth scoots down the fence to be beside him, reaching to stroke a hand over his hair. The gesture startles him out of his thoughts a bit, but he allows it, even letting them loosely wrap their arm around his shoulder and tug him close against them.

“Remember what else I said?” They ask tenderly, bending their head down to rest atop his.

“Mm?”

“I said to be gentle with each other. Careful.”

Slowly, ever slowly, he relaxes against them, the soothing lull of their calm letting him.

“It’s hard to be gentle sometimes, isn’t it? But you’ll still be together until the end, you know. You could stand to let each other in, just a little bit.”

For once, Claude has no words to offer. At least, none he is brave enough to say.

That he’s laughed too much with Dimitri, that he hardly notices how much of his day they spend around each other, and how it doesn’t bother him…and it _bothers_ him that it _doesn’t_. He almost sleeps easily beside a man who could rip him apart barehanded.

But some habits die hard, and when Dimitri had asked if he was afraid, Claude had run.

Byleth releases a wistful sigh. “I wish I could be here for the festival.”

“You really can’t stay? Dimitri will miss you.”

“We have our own to run.” Byleth explains. “Well, observe, or whatnot. We’ll be there, but the Knights have to oversee it, make sure nothing gets too rowdy. But it’s a nice time, I suppose. Except, I’ve never seen the one in Fhirdiad. It would have been nice to be able to celebrate it with you two.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been around for it.” Claude muses. “I’ve never seen the one in Fhirdiad either, but I’ve been seeing the preparations. Seems like it’s gonna be a pretty big shindig. Not that _we’ll_ actually get to enjoy it, either.”

“Really? Why not?” Byleth lifts their head, peering curiously down at him. “I thought you liked noisy things like that.”

“I do,” Claude laments, “But we’re apparently beholden to some fancy-pants banquet in the palace for all the nobles. You know, the ones too good to eat with their hands and whatnot.”

“Ugh. Boring.”

“That’s what I said! But apparently it’s like, a thing.”

“What good is being a king if you can’t do away with dumb things like that?”

“I’m saying!”

“Dimitri doesn’t like them that much either.” Byleth kicks their legs out to stretch. “He doesn’t like the pretense. He’s just good at hiding it. Well, kinda.”

“We’d have more fun running around the city.”

“That _would_ be more fun.”

A few seconds pass by, while Byleth absentmindedly drums their heel against the fence, Claude leaning his head against their arm.

“Should we go see what your royal husband is up to?”

“Yeah, I suppose it’s about that time. We have more to discuss, as it were. Still…” He says as Byleth hops down, brushing their hands over their cloak. “It was nice to talk a bit. I know Dimitri’s your forever favorite, but I miss the heck outta your Holy Weirdness, too.”

“Dimitri’s my favorite because he doesn’t call me his Holy Weirdness.” Byleth shoves him. He laughs, turning his face upwards and bringing his fingers to his mouth to let out a piercing whistle to call Nylah down.

On cue, her distant form starts its way back, her wings beating against the sky.

“Think she’ll ever warm up to Dimitri?” Byleth asks, watching her swoop closer.

“Wouldn’t hold your breath. She’s been real— _oh sweet fucking Mother of Darius—”_

Because right at their feet plops the bloody, wet corpse of a large hawk, wings bent awkwardly and its legs askew. There’s a morbidly colored splat spreading out from where it landed, the two of them staring at the grisly offering.

“Oh.” Byleth says simply. “She brought you a gift.”

Nylah lands, lumbering her way over and happily settling on her haunches to look blissfully and expectantly at Claude.

“I…oh, boy.”

“…Mind if I take it?”

“What _for—_ you know what. Don’t wanna know. Help yourself.”

•••❂❂❂•••

“I’m sorry it had to come to that.”

Felix pauses his aggressive pacing to give Dimitri a complicated look. Sylvain and Ingrid briefly hold their breaths until he sighs, uncrossing his arms and settling a hand on his waist.

“It’s fine. Things got out of hand. You dealt with it.”

“As best we could, for the moment.” Dimitri admits. Now that he’s in private, among friends, he drops a few layers of his formal poise. More humbled, less certain. Still tense, where he hovers beside the window, carefully opening it for some fresh air.

“You had little recourse.” Dedue assures him. “The talks were only meant to be for two sessions, and became three. Will be four, come tomorrow.”

“That at least will be quick, right?” Sylvain asks hopefully. “You’ll be just issuing orders.”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, good. Then I don’t have to see my parents again until who-knows-when.”

“Were you two planning on staying for the banquet?” Ingrid leans her head on Sylvain’s shoulder. “Don’t make me suffer alone.”

“Suffering? You say that like you’re not just going to be drooling all over the food. Whaddaya say, Fe?”

“We’ve wasted too much time here.” Felix insists. “We should be going back.”

“C’mon. What’s one more day? Besides, they’ll have those sweets Ashe likes. We can bring them back for him. What was it, the uh…ugh, I’m awful, you know, the apple ones that come in the little paper bags?”

“Dried caramel apples.” Dedue replies.

“Yeah! Those.”

“So get them from the market on our way tomorrow. We shouldn’t be loitering around here.”

“Ugh. No fun. Mitri, come with me tomorrow to get them after the meeting.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Dimitri apologizes. “There’s quite a bit to be done before Claude leaves, and we’re already behind.”

“Leaves? Leaves for where? I thought you were taking that whole trip around the territories together."

“We are. But before that, he’ll be traveling to Fodlan’s Throat alone to meet the Almyran army at the border to aid the transit back here.”

“Keep things smooth, and whatnot?”

“So he hopes.”

“So he’s going to already have been traveling for some weeks before you. Make sure to reward him for all that hard work. Give him a nice massage after all that riding, maybe draw a nice bath for him, _oh!_ A nice massage _in_ the bath—”

“ _Sylvain, please—”_

“Are you _an idiot?_ ”

Dimitri looks over in time to see Felix turn on his heel. Whatever of his composure he’d regained is up in flames now, the line of his jaw is cut diamond-sharp with how he’s clenched it.

“Why would you _let_ him into Alliance and Almyran territory alone?”

“Because he has influence there that I do not. Knows the people.” Unsure of what Felix is so furious about, he answers plainly, frowning, even as Felix bristles further. “He’ll have a better chance of making sure things go well than I do.”

“You really don’t see the problem? What if he had ill intent, Dimitri? You let him go unsupervised to the two territories whose armies he both led, where he has the most pull? Who will be making their way through Fodlan unchallenged?”

“ _Felix_ ,” Giving a disapproving stare, Ingrid stands to face him down. “You have _no right_ to question his intent! Maybe you don’t _personally_ like the man, but he’s still your king, _and_ Dimitri’s husband.”

“And you trust him just because of that? Blindly loyal, as always.” And, stubborn, as he always is. “I’m not accusing him of anything, you know. I just don’t see how no one pointed out the possibility of his biding his time for an opportunity like this.”

“You’re still _implying_ it!” Ingrid retorts. “You haven’t been around, Felix, what would _you_ know of him?”

“Sorry, there’s this minor thing I’ve been _busy_ with, as you might recall.” Felix snaps right back. “I don’t want to be caught from fire on _two_ borders, you understand?”

“Felix, enough,” Dimitri cuts in. “He has our trust. That ought to be enough for you.”

“Forgive me if it isn’t. You are always like this. Too trusting, too—”

“Is that Fraldarius yowling like an angry cat I hear?”

Claude’s appeared in the doorway, an easy grace in the way he leans against its carved frame.

“Liken me to a cat _one_ more time, Riegan.”

“Or what? You already hate me, so I don’t have a heck of a lot to lose.”

Felix grunts in some sort of strange acknowledgement, while Claude pushes himself from the wall to stride into the room. “So, what is it you’re fussing about?”

“Simply pointing out how foolish it is for Dimitri to let you head to the Alliance-Almyran border unsupervised when you may well be bringing an assault onto us.”

“Oh, is that what this is about? Hmm. _Hmm._ Yeah, I see where you’re coming from.”

“Felix,” Sylvain lets out an exasperated sigh. “I get the point you’re trying to get across here, but this isn’t the way to make it.”

Throwing up her hands, Ingrid turns on Sylvain. “There _is_ no point to be had!”

“He’s only concerned,” Dedue says. “We have been here to witness Claude’s resolve and character. But from his perspective, I understand his suspicion, even if it seems extreme.”

“How is it extreme?” Felix demands. “Is it, really?”

“Unbelievable. He’s defending you, and you’re _still_ snapping at him.” Storming up to Felix, Ingrid sets her hands on her waist and scowls. “Your foul mood doesn’t excuse your ill temper, Felix. You ought to apologize, to _everyone_ , right now.”

“ _Heaven’s sake,_ ” Dimitri runs a hand through his hair. “Haven’t we had enough mindless bickering to last us longer than this?”

Felix and Ingrid continue to stare each other down. Felix, for once, wholly ignores Dimitri in favor of retorting, “Why? You _have_ been here all along, and you didn’t see the potential for catastrophe?”

“There is none! Claude isn’t _scheming_ anything!”

“Again, I didn’t _say_ he is! And how would you know, until it was too late? Until the Alliance and Almyran armies were storming Fhirdiad?”

“Nothing of the sort will come to pass! You were at the treaty agreement _with the rest of us_ , you know very well they’ve agreed to a truce!”

“If only everyone were as good as their word.”

“I understand that you’re on edge because of the situation with Sreng, but that doesn’t give you the right to barge in with these _baseless_ suspicions—”

“Alright, alright, let’s all take it easy.” Claude soothes, patting each of them on the shoulder.

Felix’s tenses, like he might shrug it off, while Ingrid presses her lips together, _daring_ him to offend with a dangerous emerald glare.

“He’s right,” Sylvain appears to carefully wedge himself between the two of them, “We can surely talk this over like civilized people, right?”

“Sure,” Ingrid huffs, locked in a mutual glare with Felix. “Just as soon as he’s ready to apologize.”

Demanding an apology out of Felix Fraldarius never got anyone anywhere, and it wasn’t about to happen now.

“I have nothing to apologize for. All I did was notice how very convenient that a former military leader is leaving, unattended, to see to the two armies he used to call his own. It’s foolish, is what it is. Half a year of peace with Almyra and a marriage isn’t enough for people to forget decades of strife between two nations.”

“ _You’re_ being _ridiculous_ ,” Ingrid insists, craning over Sylvain’s shoulder to continue their glaring contest. “What reason do you have to give any credence to such an outrageous tale?”

“When did I _say_ I _actually_ think that’s what he’s doing? I’m calling attention to how no one noticed the _possibility._ ”

“Because there isn’t!”

Claude pats their shoulders again, more firmly. “Easy does it, before Sylvain and Dimitri have to drag you two apart. Because frankly, I don’t think I could. Now, Galatea, I’m honored that you’re so adamant about defending my…well, honor. Fraldarius, I’d love you for your keen insight if you weren’t such an insufferably hissy kitten about it.”

Neither are quite ready to forgive the other, but Claude watches as Sylvain walks them back from the edge with a couple of quips and a kiss to the back of Ingrid’s hand.

_Quite the expert with strong personalities_.

Suppressing a smile, he lets his hands drop away, and waits until the very sharpest blade of Felix’s anger seems tempered.

“Fraldarius,” Claude could almost shudder at the intensity of his eyes. Almost. No wonder for his fearsome reputation back at the academy, and even among the Fodlan nobles. “I hear you, believe it or not. I do.”

From afar, he can feel Dimitri’s attention; a little less agitated, more curious.

Suspicious still, Felix clenches his jaw, settling a hand on his tilted hip, waiting for the rest of it. Even the question in his stare is abrasive, as demanding and uncompromising as the rest of him.

“So, if I’m getting this right, although I’m not _strictly_ under suspicion, you certainly do see how I could, if I so wanted, and how do I put it delicately…rain an unholy amount of destruction on an unsuspecting Kingdom? Run the rivers red with the blood of innocents and whatnot?”

Felix _tsks_. “Correct.”

“Mm. I wasn’t being facetious. I approve, you know.” Claude laces his fingers together and stretches his arms out, as though wholly unbothered. “Our friends here are fine folk, but they truly don’t have an ounce of cunning, so I see why you’re so protective of them. Tell me, if you were being honest, how likely do you think it is that I would pull the unholy-amount-of-destruction thing? Scale of one to ten.”

“Must we play your games?”

“Why not? Games are fun, and I’m asking for your honest opinion.”

Nothing changes in Felix’s face as he goes silent, even though his focus on Claude only intensifies. He almost expects another biting remark, but it turns out that he was only taking the few moments to consider his answer, before he replies, “I’d say a fair three.”

“Interesting. Elaborate, for me?”

“If you wanted to lull us into a false sense of security to gather an Alliance-Almyran force at the border, now would be the time. But you’ve only recently come back to Fodlan, and your ties with the nobility here is not what it was since you stepped down after Derdriu. What’s more, you don’t have the rapport among Kingdom and crown loyalists that Dimitri does, and it wouldn’t serve your reputation to have betrayed not only a peace treaty, but your marriage as well. It’d be hard to tell who would _actually_ side with you. I’d worry about the old Adrestrian forces rising up with you, if you were liked _at all_ among them. Unfortunately for you, they like you about as much as they do Dimitri.”

Felix levels his gaze at Claude, voice cold and even compared to the molten gold of his eyes, the hard set of his downturned mouth, canines flashing threat with every word.

“You’d have quite the chaotic mess on your hands, and you don’t like mess. You’d have to play a lot longer of a game to make the most of circumstances like this.”

By now, Claude’s pressing a knuckle to his chin in thought, the corners of his eyes sharpened with the smile that curves his mouth.

It’s curious enough that Ingrid’s outrage turns to puzzlement, exchanging a look with Sylvain for answers, at which he shrugs.

Dimitri only observes, knowing the signs for when Claude’s interest is sparked when he sees it by now. Almost able to hear the thoughts racing, and yet none the wiser for the lines being penned in his mind. He can’t shake the slight foreboding that’s creeping with every sign that Claude is about to do _something—_

“Interesting, Felix.”

Taken aback by the use of his given name, Felix blinks.

“How’s about this,” The keenness in his expression turns less conniving, and more playful. “How about you come with me?”

“… _Excuse me?_ ”

Whatever Dimitri was expecting to come out of Claude’s mouth, it wasn’t that

“Yeah, I think that’ll work.” Claude tilts his head, studious, as though regarding Felix as some sort of display, looking him over. “You’ll come with me to Fodlan’s Throat. Get out of the cold mountains for a bit, get some sun. And you’ll get to make sure I don’t pull anything funny, right? Win-win.”

It’s not often Felix is rendered at an utter loss for even anger as a reaction, but he is now, staring at Claude as though he’s gone and sprouted wings.

“…Feeeelix? Hey, you still in there?”

“Claude,” Skeptical, Dedue implores, “Reconsider. Fraldarius needs Felix there.”

“Are they not prepared for him to be gone, ever? I’m sure they’ll manage.”

“Wait, wait, are you serious?” Baffled, Sylvain holds up his hands. “He can’t go traipsing all the way to the Almyran border _now_ , of all times!”

“Oh, I’m sure you can handle it by yourself. Don’t forget, you still have Ashe locked away up there to help you. I know he’s not Felix, but I promise I’ll have him back to you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. You’ll barely miss him.”

. “Wrong, I’ll miss him immediately, and immensely—”

“Awh. Cute.”

“—Let me finish. Because I can’t run _his territory by myself._ ”

“Sure ya can. I believe in you, Gautier. It’ll just be a matter of days, really. I’ll make sure he brings you back some nice souvenirs—”

“ _Is this a joke!?_ ”

“Ah, there’s the good old Fraldarius fury. I almost missed it in the few minutes since I’ve heard you yelling.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to drop everything and follow you to the border for…for what?!”

“Wow,” Claude remarks, “I thought I’ve seen you angry, but you’re positively _fuming_ now. Anyway, I told you what for. To accompany me in transporting the goods safely from Fodlan’s Throat, back to Fhirdiad, so we can lay all your suspicions about me to rest. Come on, aren’t you excited, friendo?”

“Don’t call me _friend._ ” Felix growls. “What an absolute waste of time. I have better things to do other than follow you at a whim.”

“You’ve never been there, have you? You’ll love it.”

“ _Riegan—”_

“ _Oh_ ,” Claude clasps a hand to his chest in mock apology, feigning surprise. “Oh, I see the misunderstanding here. My fault, I should have been more clear.”

“Clear about _what—”_

“That this isn’t a casual invitation. I’m _telling_ you what’s happening.”

Twice, now, all comprehension seems to drop from Felix’s face, the utter shock drawing his face into a blank.

“I’m sorry, come again?”

“What, you don’t recognize an order when you hear it?” Claude crosses his arms now, casually tapping the toe of his boot on the polished hardwood floor. The sound is nearly violent in the pindrop silence that follows.

“…Do you get it now, or do you need me to spell it out further?”

It’s Claude’s way to smile when he doesn’t mean a shred of it, and in this moment, it’s all challenge.

Felix steps forward to meet him where he stands, too quick to be anything but instinct, and for a sudden, horrifying instant, Dimitri is afraid that he’s about to lunge for him; he can’t be the only one, because Sylvain grabs for him, catching him around the arm.

Indignant, furious, Felix’s fangs are on full display while his clenched hands shake with it.

“You can’t be serious! You’re _ordering_ me? You’re _ordering_ for me to leave my own territory when we’re at the brink of war?!”

“That’s right.”

Claude meets his fire with cool control, unfazed by the severity that claws at his doors, the blood curdling ferocity that has reduced many to shriveling before Felix, whether or not it was his intent.

Dimitri wants to say something, should; is too taken by the strangeness of the situation, unable to fathom quelling either Felix’s anger or interrupting Claude’s commanding stare. With or without his noble heritage, he’s made himself a ruler in this moment.

It is almost easy to forget, with the casual way he addresses the people around him, how warm and approachable he fashions himself to be. But he’s still one of Fodlan’s kings, and Felix can’t deny him. Can’t fight him.

And he knows it, as they all do.

He nearly chokes on his breath when Felix turns, his name coming on, frankly, the most _pissed off_ plea he’s ever heard.

“ _Dimitri._ ” Felix demands. “Do something about this.”

After all, he’s the only one who can.

And he wants to. Do something, that is. But he can’t undermine Claude, whose pensive stare brings the blood rushing to his face even as Felix’s goes icy, cutting as the cold winds he hails from, draining all warmth from him.

Collapses something in him altogether when after some agonizing seconds crawl by, disbelief seeps over Felix’s face, overtaking all else.

“You’re—”

Because Felix sees, as they all do, that Dimitri isn’t jumping to his defense, and suddenly, he’s truly at Claude’s mercy.

It’s painful.

Dimitri’s jaw goes slack, his lips parting as he wants to say something, _something,_ but unsure of what— 

But then Felix is wrenching his arm free of Sylvain, pivoting on his heel, and storming out of the room, leaving frigid, burning smoke curling in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I hope I don't need to clarify this, I want to make sure it's clear here, that Felix isn't calling out his suspicions because it's Almyra or that Claude is Almyran; he's looking at it from a purely tactical standpoint.  
> You hear enough bad takes on characters before you start to get paranoid D:
> 
> The next chapter will be more fun. Promise.
> 
> thanks as always for reading/commenting ♡


	8. Chapter 8

“You should have consulted me,” Dimitri laments, trying to seem calm. But he is very much _not_ calm, voice wavering as he paces. “You cannot just _do_ things like this without telling me, on mere impulse! To send Felix away from his territory during such a precarious time—to blatantly antagonize him—I’m sorry you two do not get along, I truly am, but for what purpose is infuriating him going to—”

“Dimitri,” Claude catches him, stepping in his path to stop him short.

His name, spoken so softly against the gold of afternoon’s whispering light, is what stops him, the remorse in Claude’s face bringing him to silence.

_Or is that simply what you want me to see? Do I truly ever know what you’re thinking?_

“I know.” He says, an exasperated hand sweeping over his forehead, fingers pushing into his hair. “I didn’t mean to just…throw that out there. Truth be told, it was an idea I’d had before then, and I actually wasn’t going to do it, so I never brought it up…but in the moment…well, yeah. That was impulse. You can be mad at me for that.”

Dimitri lets his eye close, briefly. Collecting himself, for just a scarce moment, so he can look again to find sincerity in his husband’s expression.

He wants to believe it. Wants to, dearly.

“It was just. Well, he’s never made it a secret he doesn’t think too kindly of me. And you know what, that’s fine. But he has to at _least_ trust me. A _little_ bit. If we’re going to work together.”

In that, he has a point.

“Surely, this was a counter productive move on your part.” Dimitri ventures, “I cannot imagine you two coming from the other side of this as close friends.”

“Close friends, probably never. But, maybe he can put a little of his contempt for me to rest with some more facetime. I tease you about being too nice, but you’re right in that it’s way better to win people’s hearts than simply order them. And uh, I do get the irony of me saying that in this moment, but yeah.”

Claude turns to wander over to the table, pausing to consider the teapot in front of him before he pours two cups. The set had been a wedding gift from one of his acquaintances in Almyra. It’s a lovely ivory color, glazed to shine and inlaid with an intricate arabesque pattern of lapis lazuli along its curves.

Against the backdrop of the noble sunset, bright and encompassing all of their joined lands, Claude appears…weary.

“Or not. What do I know.”

Dimitri hesitates to answer. It’s unusual to hear such a resigned lull in Claude’s voice, so akin to actual vulnerability. Like earlier, he isn’t sure how to respond…and so, doesn’t. Simply fidgets with his gloves, as though that will help anything, and regret his own lack of tact.

  
“…Anyway.”

Just like that, it’s gone, swept away with the breeze. Claude brings over both cups, offering one of the saucers to Dimitri, who glances at it and shakes his head.

“I’ll get it in a moment.”

As is, he’ll likely break it.

Claude pauses, then compliantly sets it on the table in front of him, seating himself across from Dimitri and taking a careful sip of the brew.

“I had reason to take Felix with me. Besides just trying to make nice with him. I didn’t do it just to antagonize him, you know.”

Dimitri looks up, away from his wringing hands. At the very least, he can listen.

Leisurely crossing one leg over the other, Claude takes a moment to organize his thoughts before explaining, “Sylvain may hate his parents, but he knows how to work them. I hate to make it sound like I’m getting Felix _out of the way_ from his own territory, but Sylvain will have a lot more energy to deal with them when he’s not simultaneously trying to keep the peace. I admire Felix’s honesty, but his pride is getting in his _own_ way. Not to mention, I think it would do him some actual good to be seen among the Alliance nobility. We’re a united kingdom now, but he’s been cooped up in the north. If he uses the chance right, he could make some valuable connections.”

“Felix doesn’t think that way.” Dimitri reminds him with no shortage of fondness. Among the desperate-to-mingle socialites that make up many aristocrats, Felix’s unwillingness to play the game makes him an outlier.

“Ha! That’s true enough. Maybe I can help smooth the way a little for him, while we’re at it.”

Exhaustion aside, Dimitri breathes a little easier, the faint smell of the tea and the gentle steam doing much to calm his unsteady heart. He’s just thinking about reaching for it now, when Claude breaks the silence again.

“…Sorry.”

Questioning, Dimitri blinks; there is now, he is sure, a layer of soft regret to Claude’s complicated eyes, downturned to stare into his drink.

“I put you in a difficult position. I know that. Right on the spot, too. Very unkind of me.” The smallest huff of a laugh, _a-hah_ , a glint of white teeth. “I know you two are…well, I can’t tell exactly _what_ you two are. Other than irrevocably wound up in each other’s lives, that is.”

“Yes…we are that, at least.”

“Blame me all you want for this little stunt, if it’ll mend whatever rift this causes between you two.” Claude leans back in his seat. “Like I said, he’s already no fan of mine, so he can go ahead and hate me as much as he likes.”

Dimitri sighs, and gently picks up his tea. “I do not want you two to hate each other. You’re both…very present in my life.”

“Yeah, I guess it _will_ make things going forward a little awkward, huh? And a bit of a thorn in your side. I don’t hate him myself, by the way. Feeling’s not mutual.”

“No, that’s not…Dimitri sighs, staring into the dark brew in his cup. “What I meant is…”

Claude takes a leisurely drink of tea, waiting. Dimitri struggles with words, and how to use them. It’s horribly charming to watch, even if a little painful sometimes.

“…I meant that you’re both rather important to me.” He admits, his breath disturbing the rising steam from his cup as he finally takes a careful sip. “I don’t want two people I…care about…fighting.”

“…Oh.”

…That shouldn’t be enough to snatch the words from his mouth.

Dimitri is staring into his drink, taking a few sips when he suddenly sits up and blurts, “Was that strange to say? I’m sorry, I—”

“Dimitri. It’s alright.”

The last thing he wants to do is cause another struggle between them, right when they had started to resettle alongside each other. Still fretting, he takes a long sip of tea to distract himself, surprised to realize the subtle honey-sweet along the warmth. Had Claude really remembered which teas he took with what?

He’s pondering this, while Claude sits comfortably back in his seat, mouth forming a subtle smile.

•••❂❂❂•••

“And that sums up our plan as of now.” Claude concludes, lacing his hands together to settle before him on the table. “I hope we’re all suitably embarrassed that the Church of Seiros has to play a neutral party to keep everyone from bickering. That’s what they have to do for us when dealing with Adrestrian territories, you know.”

The room is more subdued this morning than it had been the entire conference. Tension still thrums beneath the surface, but the tempers have been doused since Dimitri’s outburst the previous day.

“One more thing,” Claude mentions nonchalantly as he picks his pen back up, writing ever more notes on the margins of his already crowded paper. “Duke Fraldarius will be accompanying me to Fodlan’s Throat to meet the Almyran army for the shipment of supplies and escort it back to Fhirdiad.”

Dimitri stays quiet, risking a subtle glance at Felix, whose arms are crossed tightly in front of his chest, jaw proudly lifted and as forbidding as stone.

“Young Gautier here will be keeping watch over the Fraldarius territory while the Duke is away,” He goes on to say. “So he’ll handle matters in his absence.”

Keenly aware of the interest this raises, he goes on to clarify, “Let me make it clear that he’s acting according to the Duke’s instructions, for _Fraldarius' interest_ . By _royal order._ Fort Boreas’ restoration will be _closely_ supervised by Knights as appointed by the Church. _One_ Gautier soldier foot in Fraldarius territory against the Duke Fraldarius’ explicit wishes, and they’ll all be packing up and kicked back to their original posts. We’ll be watching as well. Expect envoys to conduct inspections on our behalf.”

“May I ask…why would you remove the Duke from the border during such a crucial time?”

Claude rests his cheek in his palm. Studies the Vicountess a moment, calm in the face of her rising anxiety. “Do I have to explain _everything_ I do?”

Taken aback, she hesitates a moment, before sheepishly mumbling, “No, Sire…”

“But, if it will allay everyone’s collective curiosity,” He says, “There has been no shortage of trouble along the roads, and it won’t hurt to have one of the most skilled swordsmen in the country to ensure its safe transport. His name alone will make most would-be thieves think twice, and I’d like as smooth a trip as possible.”

He’d started the day nervous and tense, but letting Claude take the lead, watching his silver tongue work, Dimitri relaxes, and the rest of the room follows his good mood.

Actually, he’s trying not to glow, at the clever way Claude had presented everything, from the stern deliverance of their orders, to framing Felix’s excursion to Fodlan’s Throat as proof of his esteem, rather than risk it be taken as any sort of punishment. Making it explicitly clear that Sylvain was ordered by royal decree to act in Fraldarius’ interest gave him free reign in handling Felix’s affairs in his absence.

It made them the scapegoat for any fuss it caused, but better for now to have the Gautier’s ire redirected towards them, rather than cause any more tension between them and Fraldarius’ powers.

It was skillful, and more aptly handled than Dimitri himself could have. Somehow, Claude managed, at least in his view, to remain stern but still somehow _approachable_ , not the looming, despicable creature he fears he comes across as.

“For those in the room who will be attending the harvest banquet tomorrow night, we are thrilled to have you. We look forward to a truly joyous event, and can’t wait to celebrate with you.” Now cheerful, Claude graciously addresses the room. “To everyone who will be departing, safe travels, and good fortune to you, if we do not see you for the new year.”

And with that, the conference is over, with formal thanks and proper courtesy.

Neither king makes a move to rise from their seats at the head of the table until the guests have left, save but for their close friends loitering by the door, chatting while they wait.

As soon as he’s assured of his lack of witnesses, Claude heaves a truly tremendous sigh, and slumps forward onto his arms.

“Gods and their children, thank _fuck_ that shit is _over.”_

“You were brilliant.”

The words burst from Dimitri’s mouth before he has even a second to consider them.

A pause, and then Claude drags himself up to blink.

“What?” He says dumbly.

“You were.” Dimitri smiles. “Far more effective than I could have ever managed on my own. You were articulate, and commanding, and clear. And yet somehow, remained poised and regal. I, myself, have so little charisma or charm, that I do not think I could have achieved such cooperation without my title or status.”

“I. Uh. Huh.”

“That’s…that’s all I wanted to say.” Suddenly self-conscious, Dimitri feels his shoulders hunch, but giddy with admiration, cannot resist adding, “I wish I had you here all along.”

Staring. Claude is _staring._

“That’s...quite a lot of praise you just heaped on me. You’re not running a fever or something, are you?”

“No! I was just…I just think it was incredible. I see how you were able to keep the Alliance as united and as strong as it was.”

From the other end of the room, he hears Felix’s distinct groan of disgust, followed closely by Ingrid scolding, “Oh _hush._ It’s _cute.”_

He can’t imagine what they’re talking about, but for some reason, Claude drops his face fully into the table. Muffed, when he grumbles “You’re so…sweet Seiros, kill me now.”

“What?? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Dimitri. Nothing at all.”

•••❂❂❂•••

“Have you seen Felix?”

Byleth looks up, from where they’re sitting cross legged beneath a tree, a pile of feathers laid out on a dropcloth beside them.

“Not since the meeting ended, no.”

Dimitri sighs. It’s little wonder that Felix vanished after the conference concluded.

“Last night though, he sure was in some sort of way.” They go on to add nonchalantly, whittling down one of the feather ends with a knife. “Almost dragged me by the collar for a sparring match. Almost took my head off. I was _busy_ , too. He’s not too thrilled about his little trip with the little deer, is he?”

He can’t help but wince. “I’m sorry.”

“If what little he said was right, Claude’s the one who ought to be apologizing to me.” Byleth pauses to draw back their sleeve, where a nasty bruise has blossomed violet on their arm.

“Felix did that!?” Dimitri snatches their arm in his hand, aghast as he examines it.

“Oh, relax, Dima-di.” Byleth draws their sleeve back down. “Bruises happen during training all the time, you know that. Don’t worry, I gave him a few good wallops. He’s not going to be able to sit comfortably in a chair for a while, with the way I threw him on his bony ass.”

He sighs, but relents. “What are you doing, by the way?”

“Making quills. You wouldn’t _believe_ how many Seteth goes through.” They inspect their work and frown slightly. “Dedue is _so_ much better at this. Look at how nicely he did _this_ one.”

“Does this have something to do with the housekeepers panicking about the hawk corpse you carried through the garden yesterday?”

“Maybe. Ask your husband.”

“…Why—”

Byleth pats the spot beside them. “Come. Sit with me. We leave today, you know.”

Sadly, he does know. Lowering himself to sit beside them, he leans against the trunk, while they turn so they can rest their back against his shoulder, continuing to whittle away.

“…What did Felix say to you? About what happened?”

“He said that you married a…how did he put it…an _audacious bastard_ . Not to mention what he said about _you._ ”

“Do I want to know?”

“Something rather creative and rather risque about what Claude must do to make you… er, _bend_ to him. Let’s say that.”

Dimitri drops his face into his hands.

“He never makes comments like that. It surprised the hell out of me. I busted out laughing. Almost made me cry. Sorry. ”

Filing that to the far, far back of his mind to contemplate absolutely never, Dimitri goes on to ask, “You really can’t stay?”

Byleth looks over their shoulder at him, a little saddened.

“Nevermind. That was selfish…forgive me.”

They study him for a few seconds before turning back to their working hands.

“It’s alright to be a little selfish sometimes, you know.”

Instead of answering, Dimitri looks up at the canopy of leaves above them, woven from criss-crossing branches. He imagines how they’ll turn as gold as the ring on Claude’s finger, in a few more weeks. And then will come snow, as silver as his own.

“I would like to be here for the festival, but being archbishop comes with surprisingly little free time.” Byleth tilts their head back, bumping it playfully to the top of his shoulder. “Next year. Promise. No matter how much Seteth complains.”

“Alright. I’ll hold you to that.”

They reflect his small smile as they watch him, face upside down.

“By the way…speaking of Seteth. Are you ever going to tell him your feelings?”

Byleth blinks, their cheeks flushing peach before they straighten up, setting aside their finished quill to pluck a new feather from the pile.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You ought to. He obviously cares for you a great deal, you know.”

“I think he sorta knows, to be honest. But then again. If he does, why doesn’t he _say_ anything about it?” They mumble. “He may just reject me, and I don’t know how I’d ever look him in the eye again.”

“Nonsense. He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.” They huff, and kick their legs out to drop in the grass.

“No. But he’ll value your honesty.”

“Dammit,” Byleth sighs and looks at the ruined tip of the feather they’d snapped. “Maybe I ought to just let Dedue make all of them…”

“I’d offer, but…”

“Yeah, no, don’t touch them. Not every day you get a fresh hawk body dropped in your lap.”

He knows Byleth deflecting when he sees it, and decides to let them be. He takes a glance around to make sure no one is there to witness the kiss he presses to the crown of their head.

“You’ll improve with practice.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

•••❂❂❂•••

As it turns out, Sylvain had coerced Felix into going with him to the market for a few hours, very strategically taking everyone physically out of each other’s paths.

But, they’re back in time to see Byleth and Seteth off with everyone.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks, then,” They say fondly, grasping Claude and Dimitri’s hands. “Write me when to expect you.”

“We will,” Claude squeezes gently. “Be good, Teach. Stay out of trouble.”

“You’re one to talk.” They chide, leaning in to exchange a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t cause Dimitri too much grief.”

“Hey, gotta keep things interesting _somehow._ ”

Byleth and Dimitri embrace for a long moment, their arms wound around his neck, his eye closing in the clearest peace he’s ever known.

“…Hey, remember what I said about rumors? And _right_ in front of Claude, too—” Sylvain grunts when Ingrid’s elbow drives into his side.

“Remember when I told you to get bent?” Byleth says lightly, insistently hugging Dimitri a few moments longer, a little more firmly, before gently unfolding from the embrace.

They still give him a hug as well, affectionately bidding he and Felix, “Take care of each other. And send our regards to Ashe, would you?”

“Of course.” He promises.

Everyone finishes exchanging their farewells, Seteth, in his formality, sure to give them all a firm handshake. But he’s surely softened a little from Byleth’s affectionate displays, as his smile turns a shade more gentle than before.

“I look forward,” He says earnestly to Fodlan’s kings, “To all the greatness that you will undoubtedly accomplish.”

After they’ve climbed into their carriage and disappeared from sight, Felix returns to icily ignoring both Dimitri and Claude and quickly disappearing from sight again. But not before barking at Sylvain, automatically in step beside him, to stop following him like a puppy and let him have some peace.

“I was wondering where you two’d gone.” Claude purrs, Sylvain heaving a huge sigh as they walk the grounds together. “Hopefully not too much trouble in paradise with that little stunt of mine?”

“Nah. He’s still on edge, probably will be extra prickly for a while, but. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Mm. I heard him and Teach were going at it yesterday in the training yards. Not too pretty when he’s angry.”

“Depends on who you’re asking. I happen to think it’s quite fetching. Well, when it’s not _me_ he’s mad at. He left some _marks_ on me last night, though.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were also training with them.”

Sylvain flashes a grin. “I wasn’t.”

Claude blinks. Pinches the bridge of his nose, snickering, “…I should have seen that coming. Didn’t particularly need to hear it, though.”

“Give me a break! Do you know how hard it gets to, well, get some when you have a kid!? He was _so_ pent up.! Maybe I oughta thank you. You broke the entire stopper right off.”

“You _really_ don’t need to involve me in any way, shape, or form.”

“I’m _exhausted._ And sore.”

“We’re _moving on,_ now.”

“Sure. Hey, question. What’s Dimitri like in bed?”

“That wasn’t what I was going to move on to.”

“Hey, just curious! From one man to another.”

“Surprisingly unpredictable. Kinda loud, sometimes. ”

“ _Ooohh—”_

“As far as what Dimitri’s like to _fuck_ , I don’t know.”

Sylvain stops short at that.

“Wait, come again?”

“Haven’t fucked your precious Dima, if you really wanna know.”

“…You _serious?_ You’ve been sleeping in the same bed for _months_ , and you’ve _never_ even—…I don’t know which one of you I’m _more_ disappointed in.”

“ _Wow._ What’s it matter to _you?_ ”

“I’m personally offended, as a matter of fact.” Sylvain shakes his head and continues walking, while Claude rolls his eyes.

“What a _waste_ ,” Sylvain mourns as they tread over smooth cobblestone, blue sky a stark backdrop to his fiery marigold, “Two handsome gentlemen, the previously most _eligible bachelors_ in Fodlan and Almyra, united in holy matrimony, and they don’t even _enjoy_ each other properly.”

“There are ways to enjoy someone’s company without sex.”

His tone is dry as bone, but if the threatening tilt to his lips is any indication, he’s _incredibly_ entertained.

“Feel free to share them with me.” Sylvain remarks, before placing a hand over his chest as though in pain, dramatically lamenting, “Woe to be Dimitri, to be blessed with such a _fair_ _specimen_ in his bed, and not even be allowed to _touch—”_

“Enough with the flattery, Gautier. I already know you like them a _lot_ meaner than me.”

“Flattery? Nonsense, just stating facts. And, I dunno,” Sylvain laughs, stretching his arms back to fold behind his head. “That _little stunt_ , as you call it, was pretty mean.”

“Mm. Yeah, guess it was. You mad at me for that?”

“Eh…I’m not your biggest fan at the moment, but I get why you did it.”

“Aren’t _you_ the honest one.”

“Never lie to the pretty ones. They’ve heard it all already.”

Claude laughs.

“You’re a goddamn delight. You absolute prick.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

The preparations for the banquet tomorrow evening are already underway when they come upon the event grounds. Servants are setting up tables and chairs, while a few of the younger ones have plopped themselves on a blanket out of the way, weaving decorations made of ribbon and delicate chiffon. Banners of their crests have been raised along the perimeter, wreaths of freshly plucked wildflowers and decorative leaves hanging below, trailing braided ropes to string them together. Lanterns are being raised up around them, wrought in dark, shining copper.

Pausing for a moment, they watch the work be done, a handful of maids and servants giving them quick, nervous bows as they pass by.

Sylvain whistles. “Come tomorrow night, this is gonna be magic.”

“Oh it’ll look gorgeous, but it’ll be a _pain._ Are you planning on staying?”

With a sigh through his nose, Sylvain runs a hand over his suitably autumn-bright head. “I dunno. I’m sorta afraid to leave Felix as is, all upset like this. But at the same time, if I’m going to be handling Fraldarius alone until he makes it back, I should probably head on north and make sure things are alright.”

“Like you said, it’s only one more day.” Claude remarks as they continue walking, “Then again, I’m sure your little one is missing you, so I can see why you’d be eager to return. How old is the little kitten, anyway?”

“We’re going with three, give or take a few months.” Sylvain answers. “He was apparently picked up by a church as a baby in the old Adrestrian Empire and moved around a few times between orphanages and whatnot. Any records he had got lost in the shuffle, so no one really knows.”

“Ah. _Adorable._ Dimitri was all bent out of shape that he didn’t know while he was there, by the way.”

“It’s not his fault.” Sylvain ducks under a low-hanging branch as they continue walking. “We intentionally kept him out of the way to avoid too many questions, which mostly meant Ashe watching him. Total bonus that Ashe is a wonder with kids, but now I’m a little worried for when he finally leaves. Elwin _adores_ him. Think he would leave the knighthood to be a nanny?”

“Why keep it from them? Surely you can trust that bunch to keep a secret. And, yeah, good luck with that one.”

“Of course. It wasn’t a matter of trust, it was…still an adjustment for us. Whatever Elwin’s been through before us, it was a lot. New people and new places are stressful for him, and it only really started feeling recently like he’s starting to get used to _us_ for real.” Sylvain pauses for a sigh. “As much as I’m sure they would have lavished him in good intentions and affection, it seemed better at the time to let him relax in peace with Ashe.”

“You were already thinking like good parents.” Claude assures him. “I’m sure they understand, but I don’t know that he’ll escape their love next time.”

At that, Sylvain chuckles. For the first time in the last few days, his shoulders loosen with a deep sigh and stay that way, a relaxed sway to his gait.

They’re almost back to the main palace manor, the gardeners at work pruning and shaping the bushes to perfection, scarcely noticing them. It suits both of them fine, better than the owl-eyed people who hurry out of their way.

“And you? You like kids?”

“Sure.” Claude answers casually. “Who doesn’t, right? They’re funny.”

“Mm.”

A chilly breeze sweeps through, rustling cut branches and wayward leaves, Claude holding back a sneeze when Sylvain slides his hands into his pockets.

“In that case, Your Mighty Highness, I have a favor to ask.”

“Oh, it’s _Your Mighty Highness?_ That’s foreboding. What is it?”

“I know we don’t know each other as well, but, you know. Just in case the right moment doesn’t show itself with Dimitri, and I mean, I _know_ Fe is going to kind of want to kill me, but.”

Curious, Claude listens, and waits, while Sylvain stretches his back, looks up at the sky.

“Let’s say…worst comes to worst. With Sreng. And we can’t…take care of him ourselves, anymore. I told Ashe if that happens, to take Elwin and run for Fhirdiad. Can we count on you guys to make sure he stays safe?”

For all the cool rain that’s fallen in the past few days, it’s that question that leaves Claude feeling colder than anything else.

_If you die, you mean._

“You don’t have to like, adopt him yourselves or anything. Just. As long as he’s somewhere he’ll be okay, that’s all.”

For speaking about his and his love’s untimely and violent deaths, his tone is rather light; still, Claude knows apprehension when he hears it. The tension catching painfully in his throat, tightening the playful chords of his voice while he tries to sound casual.

Sylvain’s smile turns sardonic, even as he pretends to continue watching the sky for anything of interest.

“Wow. Isn’t it kinda messed up that just because this kid got lucky enough to be picked up by nobles, he’s got an escape route like that? We die, and he gets thrown into the arms of the country’s kings? Maybe it’d be a good thing for him, then—ah, but I don’t want anything to happen to Fe. But, you know what I’m getting at.”

He could comment on the morbidity of all that, or even begin to unpack how Sylvain seems so very flippant about his own demise; but instead, all he does is turn to look at the horizon, towards the mountains to the north. Think, briefly, about what it would be like to die in the snow.

“Don’t worry about it.” Claude says. “He’ll get taken care of.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m sure Dimitri would agree, no doubt. Of all the things you have to worry about, that’s not one of them.”

“…Thank you.”

Soon after, Sylvain is back to his jokes, becoming more and more inappropriate to make up for his vulnerable moment, while a familiar and heavy ache builds in Claude's jaw.

War cannot come back to Fodlan. It can’t.

He won’t let it.

•••❂❂❂•••

Sylvain deigns to stay in Fhirdiad for the extra day, in part due to the banquet that Felix was more or less socially obligated to attend. He isn’t above simply skipping it altogether, but Ingrid has forgiven him enough to plead for his company, and Sylvain can’t pass up the chance to terrorize them both at a formal event.

The weather is blessedly clear, a bright blue sky greeting the morning anew. Suitable for autumn, there’s a briskness to the jovial air, both subdued and humming with life at once, as the wind matches not only the bustling of the servants, but the very city itself.

Decorations have been raised all over town, of dried leaf wreaths and streamers of colorful fabrics, merchant wagons being hauled around as booths are set up and fire pits set up.

The knights are lively today too, awakened by the energy around them, yet wary of the mischief that festivals bring. Those younger among the ranks are every bit as excited as the people. For some, it would be their first autumn in Fhirdiad.

“It’s really something out there.” Sylvain tells them when he returns from a trip into town. He’d gone, as promised, to buy plenty of sweets, dried caramel apples included, for Ashe. “I bet it’ll be a super fun time during the actual festival itself.”

“Oh, great.” Claude groans and slumps in his chair. “Rub it in, why dontcha?”

“They’ve already started cooking,” Sylvain does, indeed, proceed to rub in. “Smells divine. Someone was roasting a whole pig in one of the streets.”

“Wait, they’re not allowed to do that…even if it…does sound incredible.”

“Oh, let it go, Galatea. At least they’re in high spirits. Some good food never hurt anyone, as I’m sure you’d agree with.”

She sighs, relenting. “I can…turn a blind eye to it. I suppose.”

“You? Turn a blind eye to harmless rule breaking? Where was this Ingrid back at the academy?”

“Cleaning up after your trail of broken hearts and shameless scandals.”

“Yikes, okay, okay!”

Claude suspects it has something to do with the package of fresh jerky he’d brought back for her, a generous slab of which she’s chewing through along with her tea.

They’re seated out on the balcony, and from here, they can watch the finishing touches of the decor and setup commence.

Meticulous and regal. Fine and perfect and— 

Well. An event fit for royalty, and royalty’s company.

“You look like you’re watching gallows being built.” Ingrid teases. “It’s just a banquet, Claude. Hardly something you wouldn’t be acquainted with, by now.”

“Oh, they don’t really bother me,” He admits, leaning back in his seat. “Except for when I know there’s a much more fun party happening right outside the gates.”

“Fun? People acting slovenly in drunken stupors is fun?” Disbelieving, she peers at him from across the table, bringing her cup to her lips.

“Kinda, when you’re not the one drunk.”

Rolling her eyes, she breaks off a piece of the meat to share, and replies, “I can’t fathom what would be so entertaining.”

“People cut loose, forget their troubles for a bit.” Claude pauses for a bite. “Don’t knock it before you try it. Besides, part of what makes it so fun is that they’re not all wound up in silly things like _proper etiquette_ and _manners_ and whatnot.”

“That sounds terrible, actually.”

“That’s because _you’re_ wound tighter than a spool of thread.”

“Well, excuse _me—!_ ”

“And we wouldn’t have you any other way.” Sylvain lovingly presses a kiss to her head.

“Whatever.” She huffs. “At least Annette’s around, so Felix is in a _slightly_ better mood. She dragged him shopping with her though, so it’s actually a fifty-fifty.”

“Shopping, huh?”

“She wanted a new dress for the festival.” Ingrid shudders. “Better him than me, though.”

“Remember though, you’re not on duty tonight.” Claude tells Ingrid. “I’m explicitly ordering you, as your king, to _relax_. As much as you can with all the stuffy noble manners, anyway.”

“Alright, alright.” She promises. “I will do my best.”

A few shouts from below grasp their attention, where a few people are carrying along a long table, setting it neatly as the last one in a row.

“Been a long time since I’ve seen the harvest banquet at the royal palace,” Sylvain notes, contemplating. “Wonder how Dimtiri does it differently.”

“Well.” Claude looks out past the yard, over the palace gates and out into the distant city. Flecks of orange banners are dappled among its tiled roofs, where through its streets, the people are ready to sing.

“Hopefully it doesn’t disappoint.”

—

As evening begins to fall, lavender brews through periwinkle above, the lanterns outside are lit to match the last of the day’s ruby-orange sunset as it fades into the landscape.

Tables covered with spotless white linens, overlaid with red-orange table runners, the base for rows of glasses, elegant pitchers and robust floral bouquets, bright with daisies and daffodils, tiger lilies, irises. Centerpieces of Fodlan’s creatures are arranged in wild dance, among fields of grass.

_Friendship, new beginnings._

_Pride, wealth._

_Wisdom, nobility, trust._

Guests begin to arrive in their finest, politely chattering above champagne and wine, sure to find the royal couple to pay their respects, before they are off to mingle with the crowds.

“You look lovely,” Dedue assures Annette, dazzling in a teal gown, its skirt full and rustling down to her ankles, a sash at the waist tied off in at a pleated bow at her back. “But was it not a little late to prepare your wardrobe the day of?”

“I spilled ink all over the dress I was planning to wear.” She says mournfully, fussing a bit with her headband, a little arrangement of flowers pinned above one ear. “So much for nothing going wrong…”

“I see.”

“Don’t you look handsome yourself, though!” She teases, giggling. “Wish _Ashe_ could have been here…”

“Ah…yes.”

“Am I done here? Can I go?”

“ _No,_ Felix!” Grabbing him back by the elbow, she frowns. “I only get to see your grumpy face like, once a year, and you’re trying to run away!”

“I…ugh. Fine.”

His will only seems to be made of paper when it comes to Annette, and he does, in fact, seem to be a little less openly hostile. Even when she fusses with his lapel, and plucks a little orange flower from her corsage to stick behind his ear.

It doesn’t mean that Claude will go out of his way to make conversation with him, though. He’s still rather…frosty towards the both of them. It is, however, plain to see the pining on Dimitri’s face as he watches them.

“Have you talked to him like, at _all_ since then?” Claude asks, and Dimitri sighs, folding his hands behind his back.

“I have tried. Several times. If he does not simply storm away from me, he yells until I leave him be.”

In a fitted, mid-thigh length black tunic accented with deep navy embroidery, Dimitri contrasts with Claude’s ivory jacket, threaded and adorned with gold accents and paired with dark umber trousers. The tailors had fussed over them far too much for his liking, personally. Though, he does have to admit that Dimitri’s jacket has been _perfectly_ cut along his narrow waist, so perhaps it wasn’t as much of a waste of time as he’d thought in the moment.

He’s almost a little distracted when Dimitri turns to carefully set down his glass with a sigh, and readjusts his gloves.

Almost.

“I do not know how to mend things with him if he will not speak to me.” Dimitri mourns.

“I told you. Blame me.”

“I will not.” Dimitri frowns a little. “True that I did not stop you, but, I don’t think I would have done any differently, even if he hadn’t rushed out. And I could have persuaded you in his favor since then, and I haven’t done that either. He has reason to be angry with me, but I want to at least explain myself.”

Claude sighs. “This really is my fault. I knew he’d be cross with _me_ , but I didn’t want to sour anything between _you_ two.”

Dimitri blinks a few times, and then glances over again at the trio, still immersed in conversation.

“We will…hopefully recover. I have done worse to him than you ever could.”

_You’re the one who married that beast._

“…That so?”

As expected, Dimitri doesn’t answer, but does drop his gaze to look at the floor by his feet.

“I’ll make it up to you. Both of you.” Claude promises with an elbow to Dimitri’s arm before he takes it, leading him towards the open doors. “For now, let’s get some fresh air, and maybe some food. You’ve barely eaten all day, and you’ll feel better after both.”

Unconvinced, Dimitri follows him anyway, absentmindedly patting Claude’s hand where it curls around his bicep, out of the hall and down the steps onto the grounds outside.

People make way for them easily, as they always do, parting with reverent looks, awed by their sheer presence. Although he thinks he may never be quite used to it, Claude admits it makes it a simple matter to get through a crowd and to the buffet table, where platters of carved meat and hearty vegetables are at the mercy of the chefs’ knives hands, arranging careful little dishes of careful little bites for the guests to partake.

Dimitri is awfully quiet tonight, below the honeyed light of the many lamps that drive away the chilly nightfall. Almost melancholic, gazing past the lights above and into the dark sky’s cover, and…that won’t do.

“What’s got you so down, sweetheart?” Nicknames either irk or amuse Dimitri, enough to at least make him responsive. This time, it does neither, but it at least gets his attention. “Can’t just be the thing with Fraldarius.”

“I find these events rather draining.” Dimitri admits. “I have so much on my mind, and I find it rather hard to put any of them out of my thoughts.”

“Mm. Okay, so then why are we doing this at all, again?” He asks as they meander towards the edge of the yard, where there are less people and the slightest more privacy. He’s learned that staying still too long invites conversation, and it’s not something the first king needs right now.

“Many people look forward to it.” Dimitri mumbles simply. “It’s as much a tradition for the royal palace as the city’s festival is.”

Chewing this over along with a bite of fig-and-nut stuffed meat, Claude shrugs one shoulder.

“Okay. I guess I see that. Still think it’s a little too stuffy and boring for my taste.”

“Aren’t most things about Fodan’s nobility too stuffy and boring for you?”

“Got me there. By the way, I did not fail to notice that you didn’t pick up a plate of your own.”

Overhead, the trees sway gently with the wind, alongside the couples already out on the dance floor. Their careful one-two-threes, in step along with their courteous banter, flow with every movement as light spills over from the indoor ballroom, the sparkling chandeliers visible even from here. There are musicians both inside and outside, so there’s not one moment to be lost to silence, notes from violin and cello, flutes and even piano, orchestrate every practiced movement of Fodlan’s noble and wealthy.

Claude manages to talk Dimitri into eating a few bites. They smile as they watch Ingrid all too happily partake of the food from afar. Distantly, they spot Annette hauling Felix around, talk him into not one, but two dances before she lets him wriggle from her grasp so she can coax them out of Dedue, instead.

In a splendid ruby-red dress, Hilda greets them with a loving tweak to Claude’s ear, and tugs Dimitri down for a kiss on his cheek.

“Why does he get a kiss and I get pain?” Claude complains as he rubs his ear, and Hilda giggles.

“Sorry Claude, he’s just cuter.”

“Slander.”

Dimitri smiles at their banter, before she finally gives in and gives him two very loud, very wet kisses on his cheek, leaving very clear imprints of her pink lipstick.

“Smooch, smooch!”

“You slobbered _all_ over me, where’s my handkerchief…”

“Gosh, you complain about everything. Dimitri, mind if I steal him for a bit?” She asks, slipping her arm beneath Claude’s.

“Of course.” Gracious, he gives a polite bow, before Hilda leads Claude off to dance.

Before they do, she does rub off the residual makeup from his face, laughing even as he settles his arm around her waist, and she leaves a hand on his shoulder.

When the next song starts, they wordlessly fall into step, a routine they’ve known with each other for years and years.

“Sooo…How’s married life treating you?”

“Well enough,” Claude responds, ignoring the way her smile spreads a little wider. “A few bumps here and there, but what lifelong partnership doesn’t?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Her perfume today is elegant. Peony, maybe, if he’s guessing right. Brighter than the shimmering silver necklace at her throat is her smile, growing wider with every passing moment she studies him.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing! You seem…I don’t know. More relaxed, somehow.”

“Relaxed? You realize we just had a war conference.”

“Well, yeah, but I meant like, _you_ you. You seem…happy. A _little_ happier, anyway.”

“Yeah? Maybe Fodlan agrees with me.”

“…Sure, you royal doof, if _that’s_ how you want to play it.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing.” She sighs wistfully, and rests her head on his chest, tucked below his chin.

Despite Hilda’s best efforts, her delicately shaped hands still bear the remnants of weapons and war. Calluses rubbed smooth, fingers adorned with well manicured and painted nails, as well as little white criss-crossed scars that her gloves hadn’t been able to stop. And one rather noticeable scar over her abdomen, underneath her gown; she’d taken a blow for him once, and he’ll never forget it.

All he could do was stare in shock as Hilda Valentine Goneril howled in pain, and then in fury. Right before she brought her axe down on the Empire soldier who had dared tried to slay her precious deer.

They seldom talk about it, and never mention the hours he had spent beside her afterwards, cradling her to his chest even after the threat to her life was far over. He spent the next few nights sleeping beside her, nevermind how many of Holst’s blades he might have to dodge.

 _“You’re so helpless without me.”_ She’d laughed. _“Look at it this way, no one will ask me to do_ anything _with an injury like this.”_

 _“Helpless,_ ” He’d agreed, and squeezed her hands so tightly. _“Never leave me alone.”_

“What’s that look for?”

Claude’s smile turns into a smirk. “What’s what look for?”

“You’re _planning_ something.” Hilda frowns suspiciously, but there’s a very recognizable spark of excitement in her eyes. Knowing, and conspiratorial.

“Nonsense.”

“Don’t you try to lie to me, Claude von Riegan-Blayddid,” She scolds, leaning in to bump her forehead into his. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, don’t you?”

Ignoring the looks it draws, Hilda squeals when Claude dips her unexpectedly, throwing both arms around his neck on reflex, while he laughs and beams down at her.

“I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about, Hilda.”

They make it through a few dances together, gossiping idly. Not long after, they catch sight of Dimitri, having been picked up himself for a few dances by an assortment of guests.

“Woah. He looks utterly miserable.” Hilda mumbles as they slip through the crowd and away from the other dancers.

Claude’s rather impressed that she can see past the polite mask Dimitri wears, perfectly amicable to anyone else at passing glance.

“Who looks miserable?” Dorothea chimes, tucking a lock of perfectly arranged hair behind an ear.

“Dorothea!” Hilda squeals and hugs her. “When did you slip in?”

“Oh, I was fashionably late, as always.”

And a vision as always, Dorothea shines in a cascading coral red-orange-pink gown, the neckline plunging low. The flowing chiffon skirt features a long slit up the side, giving fleeting glances of her long legs. Gold earrings dangle from delicate white ears, matching the pendant hanging about her neck and the bangles on her wrists.

“Told ‘em not to let you in.”

“Oh, stop.” Dorothea swats at Claude’s arm.

“How are you, love?” Hilda wastes no time procuring drinks for them, passing a glass of rose to Claude and sipping her own.

“Same as ever, darling.” Dorothea promises with a flourished kiss to her cheek. “The theater life is treating me quite well.”

“As I’ve heard! You’re the talk all over Fhirdiad and even beyond!” Hilda praises while Dorothea basks.

“Luna Theater Company, right?” Claude recalls. “They’ve been popular among the nobles, too. Even we’ve been hearing about it and trust me, we are both decidedly unartistic.”

“You simply _must_ come to one of our performances.” Dorothea insists, “It would be an honor to have the royal couple in our audience. I’ll get you the best seats in the house.”

It’s nice to talk about shows and concerts, rather than war. Among many of the aristocrats for whom the war had been mostly an inconvenience, it’s a very different matter to have his former comrades on the battlefield for company.

At some point, Dimitri extricates himself from another round of dances with another round of socialites, and makes his way towards Claude before hesitating, seeing him in conversation.

Fortunately, Hilda catches sight of him, snatching him by the arm just as he turns away to leave them be, and steers him into their circle.

“Don’t you run from us.” Hilda chides, guiding him now with a friendly arm slung around his back.

“I meant no harm,” Dimitri says politely. “I didn’t want to disturb your conversation.”

“You’re not disturbing a thing,” Dorothea kindly replies. “We’d love a chat with Your Highness.”

“You are making a better host than I myself.” Dimitri returns the smile, leading her to titter behind a slender hand.

“Nonsense. This is an absolutely breathtaking party, by the way. Very tasteful, very glamorous.”

“Dedue certainly did a wonderful job.” Dimitri acknowledges. “It was mostly his planning.”

“Wow! He sure did.” Hilda trades out her empty glass for a new one from a passing server, holding one out for Claude. “Hurry up and finish your drink.”

“Oh no, no. Not this time. You’re not getting me again.”

“Pfft. That’s what you always say.” She rolls her eyes and hands it off to Dorothea instead, who giggles and accepts the white wine with a curtsey.

“Nope! Not me. Not tonight.”

By now, the party really is in full swing; as much as decorum allows, anyway, with most people at least a drink or two in, laughing merrily and enthralled in conversation.

From here, Claude can see that Ingrid is unbearably sober, surveying the crowd with far too much alertness for his liking. She passes up one or two gentlemen who ask for her hand to dance, only tolerating Sylvain’s company, likely happily using him as a shield against any admiring would-be suitors.

That’s no good, either.

“Say, ladies,” Claude pauses to toss back the rest of his drink, making Dorothea raise her brows in interest while Hilda gets a wholly _tired_ look on her face. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to do me a solid?”

“A favor, _hmm?_ ”

“Oh _no_ ,” Hida sighs. “I _knew_ it.”

“You’ll like this one, trust me.”

Dimitri says nothing, but he’s on guard, and Claude can’t suppose he can be blamed. Nonetheless, he leans in a bit, prompting the ladies to follow suit, catching onto the air of rose-sweet mischief that is his clever grin.

“Distract Galatea for me.”

“…You’re right.” Dorothea relents. “I do like this. But why are we doing it, again?”

“Royal business.”

“Royal business—Claude!” Hilda hisses, stifling a laugh, trying to seem disappointed in him. “You’re playing hooky on your own party!?”

“Shh, shh, she’ll never let me get away with it. You know what a stickler she is. No fun allowed. Keep an eye on Dedue, too.”

“How long are we doing this for?” Dorothea’s cunning comes out in full force; an absolute fox in more than one sense.

“Long as you can.”

“A challenge I can get behind.” Ever ready for attention, especially when it’s Ingrid’s she’s after, Dorothea straightens up and fixes her bodice, at which Dimitri politely turns his face away, which makes Hilda snort indelicately into a napkin.

“And what are we getting out of this for our service, Mr. Von Riegan-Blaiddyd?”

“My everlasting and undying love, of course.”

“Boring. I already had that.”

“ _I’m_ collecting _my_ reward elsewhere.” With a cheeky wink, Dorothea hooks elbows with Hilda. “Come on now, time is of the essence! Don’t you see how these utterly _unworthy_ men are swarming my gorgeous Ingrid?”

“Ugh. Fine.” Hilda allows herself to be pulled away, turning to shoot a look over her shoulder at Claude, pointing right at him and declaring, “You owe me, Claude! Don’t forget that!”

“I won’t, I won’t!” He promises, seeing them off with a wave. “Have fun, my darlings!”

The entire exchange leaves Dimitri baffled, looking between the departing women and Claude, finally asking with utmost caution, “What _are_ you up to, now?”

“Nothing heinous, I assure you.” Claude smirks.

“That is…not very assuring at all, actually.”

While they watch, Hilda and Dorothea make their way over, the latter very enthusiastically greeting Ingrid with a hug around her shoulders and a prolonged kiss to her cheek, leaving one of Dimitri’s finest knights blushing harder than a cherry, stuttering over all her refined words even from here.

Sylvain and Hilda are both obviously taking great amusement in her fluster, Dorothea very insistently wrapping an arm around Ingrid’s waist and anchoring her to her side, giggling with rose-colored lips and a flip of silky brown waves.

“Ain’t she laying it on thick?” Claude comments. “Well. At least it’s working.”

Dimitri barely has a moment to formulate a comment before Claude’s hand is on his arm again, tugging him to _move_.

“Come on, Your Highness,” Claude can barely keep the laugh from his voice. “Quickly now.”

Dimitri lets himself be led through the plaza, up the stairs, and into the ballroom. His hope that perhaps Claude had been looking to simply escape Ingrid’s ever-vigilant sight is dashed when Claude casts a quick glance around, and then once assured that no one is for once, paying them much mind at all, eases them through a side door and into the hall.

All this, he does with perfect poise and carefully pronounced nonchalance; but once the door shuts behind them, he drops pretense.

“Okay, come on, _let’s go._ ”

And he’s rushing down the hall, leaving Dimitri to practically run to catch up with him.

“Claude…Claude, wait, what are we doing?”

“Something better than this.”

“That’s hardly an answer!”

Claude doesn’t hesitate, navigating them down several halls and up a side flight of stairs, down another corridor, towards the east wing. There are very few guards this way, and none at all once they’re safely on the second floor.

Once sure they’re alone, Claude stops midway down the hall, taking one more glance around before he leans down, patting down the wooden panels, rapping his knuckles lightly until—

“A-ha.”

A panel springs off altogether, revealing a small crawl space.

Dimitri stares, jaw slackening. “Wh…how did you find this?”

“Oh, nosing around a big, ancient palace, you find interesting things.” Claude answers casually as he pulls out a cloth sack.

“We ought to have this repaired immediately—”

“Don’t you dare! I love this thing.”

“What else have you found?” Dimitri can hardly believe it. Even _he_ hadn’t known this was here…

“Less questioning, more wardrobe switching. As Dorothea would say, time for the second act.”

“I beg your pardon—”

Claude tosses a bundle of cloth at him, scarcely waiting for a reply before he strips himself of his jacket and cumberbund.

“W-What are you _doing—!?”_

_“Less questioning, more wardrobe switching!”_

Dimitri blinks, looking down at his hands to start to make sense of the garments he’s now holding.

When he looks up, Claude’s pulling a loose linen shirt over himself and straightening it down before quickly undoing his trousers—

“What—”

Quickly, he turns away, feeling the heat rising to his face.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

“Quiet, do you _want_ guards to come rushing in and finding us half-dressed in the hallway?!”

“You’re the only one half dressed.” Dimitri points out.

“I won’t be, if you just cooperate.”

Dimitri sighs. “Is there any point to arguing with you?”

“None, whatsoever. Just trust me, would you?”

One slow, deep breath to calm his frantic heartbeat. And another. And then Dimitri gives in.

By the time he’s changed, he finds himself in dark twill trousers, pulling a vest over a slightly rumpled, collared shirt. Claude is just finishing folding and stuffing his clothing into the sack, making quick work of Dimitri’s royal ensemble when he does a quick double-take and breaks into a grin.

“You’re looking good, Dimitri.” He laughs, and for a finishing touch, plops a cap onto his blonde hair. He himself is in simple, dark gray trousers along with the slightly-too-big shirt that he’s messily half-tucked into them.

“You still haven’t explained what it is we’re doing, though I’m afraid I’m beginning to come to a conclusion.”

“Come on.” Hand on a cocked hip, Claude beams at him. “You already know.”

“…This is a terrible idea.”

“This is a _great_ idea.” Claude tosses the sack into the wall and carefully nudges the secret panel closed with a foot, now adorned in a pair of well-worn work boots. “Fixed it for you.”

(This is a _terrible_ idea.)

Still, Dimitri lets Claude do it, lets him take him firmly by the wrist and rush him back down the way they came, warm against his own skin, as decisive as every arrow he has ever loosed.

Dimitri has never snuck out anywhere. Or in, really. Claude seems very practiced at it, carefully glancing around every corner before they rush down the hall, ducking below windows and keeping light on his feet, barely making a noise on the floors.

He himself isn’t so graceful, or as well versed in stealth, but he does try to follow. Secretly glad that he’s behind Claude’s lead, so he doesn’t have to expose his utter clumsiness to the other’s nimbleness.

Rather than risk going by the outer grounds again, Claude takes them around another corridor, which will take them through the audience chamber and out through the adjacent gardens, where they will probably be well concealed by the foliage, if not the lack of light.

Guards will surely be patrolling, but not neatly as heavily; most have been focused on the outer perimeter, if not by the gates themselves. And of course Claude would know how to avoid them; he had gone over security detail with Ingrid.

“Almost home free.” Whispering, Claude is practically giddy, waiting until the knight cuts around a corner. A few more seconds, and then he’s dashing out again, past the pillars and coming upon the splendid glass doors.

“Huh,” He muses as Dimitri follows behind him. “Kinda thought that’d be locked, to be honest—oh.”

Dimitri sees immediately why Claude’s stopped short, and freezes alongside him.

Because who other could they have possibly had the fortune to run into?

Felix is giving them a very bewildered stare indeed, one that quickly turns to disdain as he looks them up and down.

“Hey there…Fraldarius.” Claude clears his throat, and, realizing he’s still holding Dimitri’s wrist, quickly drops it. “Fancy seeing you here. Did someone leave a tasty fish for you out here?”

“Do you _really_ want to test me right now?”

“You’re right. You’re _so_ right.”

With a truly exasperated sigh, Felix crosses his arms, the soles of his boots scuffing lightly against the stone tiles as he steps away from the wall and faces them.

“Care to enlighten me what exactly you’re doing sneaking out of your own banquet dressed like…that?”

“Ah, well. You see. Interesting story that—hey wait, why are _you_ out here?”

“I hate these things. I wanted a few moments of peace. Answer the question, _Your Majesty._ ”

“You’re a clever guy,” Claude tries flattery, and while Felix isn’t immune to it, he’s more than conscious of the tools in Claude’s kit of tricks. In a sense, his fluency with Sylvain’s antics have indeed come back to bite them this time, because it means, naturally, that he’s already familiar with Claude’s type of troublemaking. “I’m _sure_ you can take a guess.”

“I can hazard one or two. Now, give me one good reason to let you two wander off into the chaos that’s Fhirdiad right now.”

“Erm.” Dimitri intelligently offers.

“Astounding.”

Claude flashes him a very white, very dashing smile, hands open in half-plea, half-entreaty. “We’ve all been under a lot of stress, you know, and I just thought—”

Somehow, Felix stops him short with a raised hand, and _somehow,_ Claude goes silent.

Then he sighs. Rubs his temple.

“Just go.”

“…Wait, seriously? That’s it? You’re not gonna rat us out as soon as we’re gone, are you?”

“ _Go_.”

“Never saw us, right?!”

“Never saw you.” He concedes, and folds his arms. “Now move it, before I change my mind.”

Claude opens his mouth, for who knows what else; but as they all know, his mouth often runs them into trouble, so Dimitri grabs him by the back of the collar and urges him along, twisting whatever he was going to say into an indignant yelp.

Dimitri hurries them past, only pausing for a moment.

“Felix…thank you. I mean it.”

“You look ridiculous. Get out of here.”

•••❂❂❂•••

Another time, Dimitri will have to reflect on how Claude seems well acquainted with every nook and cranny of the estate, even the gardens they run through.

Down the paths and behind tall hedges, Claude leads Dimitri by the wrist, once in a while throwing a boyish grin his way, as though to make sure he’s still coming.

The partial moon overhead winks behind clouds at their mischief, in perfect compliment to the autumn chill, the smoke-gray sky. Watching, as Claude scales a tree and climbs out onto a branch. Every time it bends below his weight, Dimitri’s heart skips a beat, afraid of it breaking; but it supports him all the way to the top of the concrete wall, so he can reach down and help haul Dimitri up and over.

“Do we really need to be sneaking around like this?” He asks as they drop down onto the cobblestone of the city street. “If we really wanted to, we could have simply strolled out.”

“But this is way more fun.” Claude protests. “Isn’t it?”

“You have an odd idea of fun.”

Though he isn’t ready to admit it, out loud, anyway, there is a tingling thrill chiming along up and down the inside his ribs, tickling along the back of his neck as Claude hurriedly leads him through Fhirdiad’s back streets, towards the distant call of adventure.

Before long, they are coming in close to the ruckus that is a commoner festival, the lights growing more pronounced along with lively music and laughter.

And Dimitri lets Claude tug him into a side street, around a couple of busted crates and startling a few mice, past some overturned buckets, under some hanging laundry, and finally, finally, out into the main avenue.

Stalls of steaming food, wagons of goods for sale. Tables of wares for the passing folk, carts of the farmers’ proud harvests. People are crowded into the streets in nature’s colors of green and yellow, brown and orange, red and gold.

Children run about with candy-sticky faces, men and women clustered around pitchers of beer. A pair of lovers share drinks from a bottle of wine, cheeks blushed-stained from the liquor and the looks they pass each other, while vendors hoot and holler at every other booth.

“Aren’t you afraid we will be recognized?” Dimitri asks under his breath, even as he gazes up at the garlands of dried vegetables and leaves strung high across the streets, between lamp posts and wooden banner poles.

“Nah,” Claude has already ducked to offer a few coins to a stall, pushing a roasted potato into Dimitri’s hand, steaming hot in its waxed paper and slathered in herbed butter. “Everyone’s too busy with their own thing to pay attention to us. Especially with these _flawless_ disguises. C’mon, eat up.”

Somehow, Claude always seems to get his way. Even with Dimitri, it seems, who can do little but do as he’s done all night, and give in.

Even after he’s finished hesitantly eating out of his hand, the potato as creamy soft as the butter iself, it’s not long before he’s pulled by a stall to have a tin cup of cider shoved at him.

“How is it?” Claude winks, taking a long drink from his own. “Really sweet, isn’t it? Freshly pressed, this very morning if you believe the lady.”

And it is; sweet and cold, odd to chase the potato down with, but somehow, it doesn’t bother him.

They loiter around the stall while they sip, people watching.

“You’ve never really been to the autumn festival out here, have you?”

“Well,” Dimitri thinks back. “The one time while we were at the Academy. But that was, of course, years and years ago now. I don’t recall most of it.”

“That so? Good time for a refresher, then.”

Once they hand back the cups to the vendor, they’re back to walking along the streets. There are racks of roasted corn, baked squash and racks of grilled meat, charred to imperfect, crispy perfection.

Rows of masks stare down at them from a tall display, made of paper and pressed corn leaves, decorated with beads and hay, painted brilliant colors in patterns and cut into fantastic shapes. As they watch, a mother buys a set for her two children, who promptly begin to terrorize each other while running in circles about her legs while she pretends to be exasperated, despite the fond smile she bears.

They move on, but not before stopping at a similar stall so Claude can buy them masks of their own, grinning as he knots the twine behind his head, insisting on setting the other over Dimitri’s face.

It’s fun for a bit, until they shove them off, tying both around his belt so they can focus on taking in all the sights the jubilant bustle has to offer.

Claude sits in on a game of cards for a few rounds, losing a few coins to a bad hand and winning only part of it back, along with someone’s broken pocket watch they’d gambled instead.

“What are you even going to do with that?”

“I dunno.” Claude laughs, looking it over. “Looks kinda cool, though. Kinda dig the hunting wolf motif—oh, wait, it’s chasing a bunny. That’s a little sad.”

It’s one of Fhirdiad’s largest celebrations, spanning an entire section of the city, lit by twinkling lanterns and flaming torches. Musicians are out in full swing, lutes and fiddles in fiery play for the dancers that gather around and pay tribute with their spins, winding arms and quickened feet. Skirts and hair and scarves twirl around them as they laugh and smile, twisting about each other and trading partners every so often with no thought to formality or rules.

“You wanna dance?” Claude’s smiling, and even his eyes glow with it.

“O-oh, no, I’m fine.” Dimitri is a bit enchanted by it, but only from afar. “I don’t know how to dance like that.”

“It’s not as hard as it looks. In fact, it’s easier, in a sense. There’s no right or wrong way, really. You just feel the music and your partner out and make do with it.”

“Maybe later…”

With a chuckle, Claude shrugs, but they move on.

A few streets down, a couple of performers are putting on a show with gaudy costumes, the crowd laughing and cheering at their antics. A little boy cranes futilely up on his toes to look, before poutily tugging at Dimitri’s shirt. Claude lifts him onto Dimitri’s crouching shoulders, gently grasping onto his hands while he stands back up.

The rest of the show goes on for a while, finishing with a big flourish as the performer releases a pack of sparrows into the air from their billowing sleeves, to flap and soar away to the crowd’s astonished gasps. They clap while their assistant passes through with a cap, into which everyone drops a few coins.

“Thanks, sir.” The little boy offers Dimitri, suddenly shy, before he runs back to where his older sister is waiting by a wall. She gives him a smile, as well as a thankful little wave before they’re off and disappearing into the crowd.

“Are you having fun? Tell me you’re having fun.” Claude bumps him in the side, and Dimitri doesn’t suppress the small smile it draws from him.

“It’s…enjoyable. Different, at least, from the sort of…erm, formality I’m used to.”

“Course it is.”

It’s very different, as when Claude buys them yet more food, and Dimitri takes a bite from a meat skewer that only pours grease down his chin, he quickly covers his face and looks around for a napkin.

Laughing, Claude bats his hand away only to wipe it from his face with his bare hand, and Dimitri stares as he simply goes on to wipe it against his trousers.

A couple of kids drag Claude into a game of tag. Dimitri politely refuses amid a chorus of booing, but doesn’t mind watching as Almyra’s former crowned prince feigns exhaustion at their _incredible speed_ , gasps in utter fear when they turn the tables on him and give chase. Little do they know it’s their king they’re circling, shouting and cheering as he pretends to be valiantly vanquished by a girl barely up to his waist, dramatically collapsing to the ground.

It doesn’t really look much like tag anymore, but he can’t help but laugh behind his hand.

“Mister,” One of the kids asks in all his youthful curiosity, “What happened to your eye?”

“Ah,” Dimitri blinks. “Well—”

“He fought a bear.” Claude supplies helpfully, two little ones hanging off his waist. “A great big black bear up in the mountains.”

The entire gaggle of children gasp and stare at Dimitri, not unlike a litter of baby rabbits.

“No way!”

“Did you beat it?!”

“You kiddos see a bear around?” Claude winks at them and they gape at him, awed.

Soon after, the kids run off to more of their mischief elsewhere. Claude dusts off his trousers and they press on, through the increasingly boisterous party of Fhirdiad’s harvest festival.

It’s loud and almost a little overwhelming. Dimitri thinks he might have been worn out by it all, if not for the company keeping him both distracted and entertained. Claude’s hand is always warm when he finds his arm, gentle on his back and his waist, keeping him nearby so they don’t end up separated by the crowd.

The touches leave simmering fire where they land, take a little breath from him every time.

Maybe it’s simply the smoke from the charcoal fires that’s getting to him a bit, overheating him. Or perhaps he is a little lightheaded with all the noise, and so very much to look at.

And it is hardly a wonder that with Claude’s persistence and his clever hands that pull him into the plaza, turned to a dance floor with the music and orchestra of matching laughter, overlaid by clicking heels and joyous hooting.

“Come on, time to learn.” Claude beckons, Dimitri’s face lighting aflame at the cast of light over his playful smile, the gentle wrinkle at the corners of his eyes. “No wiggling out of it this time.”

“I, um…”

“No one’s here to see,” He urges, taking Dimitri’s hands and tugging him ever closer to the edge, to the circle of dancers, swirling and turning about like a whirlpool, “I won’t laugh at you. Promise.”

For what it’s worth, Dimitri does try.

“Loosen up,” Claude urges, curling an arm around his back and giving a light tap, “Just like in training. If you’re too stiff, you make it worse.”

It takes a while, and they go slow at first, Dimitri having to catch onto Claude’s cues by observation, by instinct, rather than routine steps. It reminds him of their first dance on their wedding day, how he’d coerced Dimitri into something almost wholly different and thrillingly novel.

But he hadn’t despised it, and he doesn’t despair now at the chance to hold his hand again, let him lead them into the flow around them. So easily, it begins to feel natural.

“There you go,” Claude’s voice is clear, even through the din around them, low and kind, “You’re getting it.”

Dimitri often feels more monster than man. He had been so, so afraid that he could be no more than that, that Claude, with all his keen sight, would peel away this cracking mask he wears. See, and know, and what could he possibly do to argue if his deer wanted to flee the lion prowling the shadows?

Now, now, a little hopeful flame catches in his chest, that maybe, maybe, he won’t.

A shy and breathy laugh escapes him, Claude’s grin going ever wider, ducking to catch his eye when he tries to turn away.

“Stop that, stop hiding from me,” He teases, snickering and following Dimitri’s every move to catch more of the bashful smile he suppresses more laughter into.

Maybe he can put away the beast that he is for good. Wants to, if it will keep Claude looking at him this way, with joy and mirth and maybe, maybe, one day—

And somehow, in the instant that they step apart, they’re separated, a handsome girl twining her arm around Claude’s shoulders and leading him off. He blinks, and then he laughs, falling into step with her.

An apologetic shrug, a quick salute, and then they’re gone, swept along the tides. Dimitri barely has time to contemplate it before someone snatches his hands up, almost making him jump before he eases back into the tempo of the music, a pair of young men touting him into their fold.

For a few minutes, he tries to enjoy it by himself; the cheer of the other people do keep his spirits afloat, even as he switches partners several times, between an elderly lady, a young man about his age, another woman with a brother who is obviously watching Dimitri with protective hawk eyes.

His last partner is another woman, when he gently brings them to a stop and says, “Thank you for the dance, but I believe I will take a bit of a rest.”

“I’ll join you,” She says, even though he hadn’t intended to stop her own fun, and follows him carefully from the sea of dancers, sitting beside him on the large stone fountain that sits in the middle of the plaza.

It’s a little quieter here, easier to take a quick breather. The air is a bit cooler out of the crowds and away from the bonfires and cooking grills.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your time,” Dimitri apologizes as she sits beside him, folding her skirt beneath her. “Please, don’t mind me.”

“It’s alright,” She says with a coy smile, “I don’t mind. I wanted a break anyway.”

“I see.”

He doesn’t see, but he does respond when she chats lightly with him. About the festival, the weather, and the state of the roads; she came from a town just outside Fhirdiad, a few hours by horseback.

“Surely you won’t return tonight,” He says. “It will be dangerous to be out on your own at night.”

Tilting her head towards him, she brushes a lock of dark hair from her green eyes. They are a pretty color, he notes, but not the shade he likes best. “If all goes well, I will have both a bed for the night and very much not on my own.”

“Oh, do you not have accommodations?” Concerned, he looks at her, and she raises an eyebrow at him. “I am sure there must be an inn somewhere with an open room.”

“I am sure there is,” She scoots closer, her hip bumping against his. “Shall we find one?”

Dimitri shakes his head. “I came here with someone, and I cannot simply wander off on my own. If you like, we can look after I’ve found him.”

Although he’s not sure what’s changed, she pulls back a little, blinking. “I—oh. Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“So you’re…not alone, then.”

“Ah, no,” Unsure where the mutual puzzlement has come from, he looks around. “He ought to be around somewhere.”

While he searches, he can feel her watching him. It takes a few minutes to locate Claude, having also stepped away from the dance and leaning against a post.

“There he is,” Dimitri says, relieved. It would be a mess if they had lost each other for good; the atmosphere is so far removed from the palace earlier, it’s been easy to forget that technically, they shouldn’t be here at all. “I must excuse myself, unless you would indeed like us to aid you in finding a suitable room for the night.”

“Um, no…” Uncertain, she sits up straight now, “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? You will be alright?”

“I can handle myself.” She insists with a grin. “Enjoy your night, sir.”

“Very well. A fine evening to you, then.”

He gives her a quick bow and hurries his way past blurry outlines of people and shadows of others, making his way through. Claude looks up as he approaches, a devilish little grin appearing over the lip of his cup.

“Well now, haven’t you caught a pretty young thing for yourself?”

“Beg your pardon?” Dimitri blinks. “I was simply taking a break. She followed me.”

“She certainly did. I saw the whole thing.”

Dimitri is not certain he likes the glint in Claude’s eye.

“You sure you want to hang around me, when you’ve got her sitting over there waiting for you?”

“I don’t follow.” Dimitri frowns. “I came here with you.”

“Yeah, but—oh, _Heavens above,_ you didn’t realize—oh, _Dimitri_ , you sweet, innocent thing.” Claude laughs and downs the rest of his drink. “Seriously? With the way she was inching closer to you? Leaning in by your shoulder? Flipping her hair, batting her eyelashes? I thought she was going to start undoing her bodice right there in the plaza, with the way she was eyeing you.”

Sudden realization thunders its way up Dimitri’s spine, all the way to his heating cheeks, and he gapes, while Claude breaks out in laughter.

“You mean she was—I—but surely—”

Claude leans in, murmuring, “She’s still over there, you know. She’s still watching you.”

“Oh, goodness,” Dimitri clasps a hand over his mouth, and, heavens above _indeed_ , he can _feel_ how hard he is blushing against his fingers. “She— I told her I had come with someone…no wonder she began acting oddly after that…Claude, what do I do?”

“Really, you don’t have to do anything.” Claude shrugs a shoulder. “I think she gets the hint, what with you dumping her to come running over to me.”

“This is so…”

Flustered, Dimitri waves his hands in some ambiguous gesture, while Claude’s eyes flicker with amusement, sipping away.

“Hey, it’s really not a big deal,” Claude says, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You wanna take another walk?”

“I…yes, that is perhaps best.” Dimitri sighs, clapping his hand to his forehead. “Am I truly so oblivious? Ugh…”

“Not that I’m all that eager to return, but we should start kinda making our way back.” Claude surmises with a glance up at the large clock hung outside a church’s bell tower. “It’s been…quite a while. Let’s hope our absence hasn’t been missed _too_ much and we haven’t accidentally caused a panic.”

Quickly finishing his drink, he sets the glass, and another coin, down on the counter for the barkeep, and with an assuring arm on Dimitri’s back, he guides them out of the square and back down the street they had come from.

With purpose, but lack of haste, they make their way back through the city’s streets, dodging rowdy groups and rowdier children.

Claude convinces one more drink for them both to top off their illicit trip, tapping their steins together before they down the wheaty beer. It’s bittersweet and cold, the foam sticking to Dimitri’s lip.

Until Claude laughs, and wipes that away too, and suddenly, his cheeks are warm with the drink; he avoids alcohol, because it can be rather hard for him to taste it.

If he isn’t careful, he really will end up intoxicated.

As they escape the main venues into the quieter streets, it’s easier to appreciate the beauty of the city itself. The multicolored tiles of rooftops, and patterned sidewalk tiles. Old, noble houses as ancient as the Kingdom itself. Brickwork that he can’t resist, in their relaxed mood, to run his hand along, having almost forgotten that he isn’t wearing his gloves.

“So? What’d you think?”

Their breaths are coming in soft white vapor, an ode to the coming winter that leaves Claude rubbing his arms a bit, before pushing his hands into his pockets.

“It’s lovely.” Dimitri admits.

“Still think it was a terrible idea?”

“It wasn’t your worst.”

“I’ll take it.”

Truly, it will be an interesting memory, if nothing else. The masks rustle against Claude’s thigh with every step, Dimitri’s mouth a little burned from the meat skewer, which had still been steaming hot when he’d sunk his teeth into it.

Snickering, Claude stifles a laugh behind his hand, and Dimitri looks over, startled out of his meandering thoughts.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Just can’t believe you. You _sure_ you didn’t wanna have a tumble with that girl?”

Dimitri stops short, scandalized. “What?! No, of course not!”

“She was pretty.” Claude kicks a pebble and watches it skid out of sight.

“Claude. I am _married._ In case you do not remember.”

“Yeah, of course.” He shrugs. “But I wouldn’t blame you, you know? I don’t really expect you to want to be alone forever.”

“I am…I am not alone.” Dimitri’s courage fails him, casting a defeated look at the sky. “I swore to you.”

“Marriage vows are what you make of them, you know. If I’m here, giving you _permission—_ ”

“That’s not what I’m referring to.” Cutting him off with a stern eye, Dimitri frowns.

Distantly, the festival continues without them. Food and drink flowing, people laughing, and calling, the sounds of their celebration drifting high into the night.

To the clinking of glasses and bawdy tavern songs, they are still.

Looking. Waiting.

“I swore,” Dimitri reminds, low and solemn. “I would never do that to you. I meant that.”

“Oh. That.”

“But…it seems that it has been on your mind.”

With such a secretive man for a husband, with as many layers to him as stars in the sky, he supposes it isn’t out of the question. Why also, he would insist that Dimitri find another to satisfy any desires that Claude did not fulfill himself. Perhaps he truly is naive as he has been accused of; after all, he _was_ completely oblivious to what was, in retrospect, a very clear invitation.

“Is that what you would like, Claude?” Dimitri asks, a knot in his gut growing cold and tight. “Do you have a lover? Do you want one?”

“No, no,” Claude waves his hand, a little…frantic. Which is odd, because Claude does not often become so blatantly flustered. “I don’t, don’t you worry about that. I just…Dimitri, I’m not exactly the warmest companion. We got married for the politics involved, but that doesn’t mean you have to deny the human part of yourself.”

At Dimitri’s sullen gaze, he adds on, “It’s not that I _want_ you to…fucking hell and back, this is awkward. I just meant…if the opportunity ever came up, you know? Like tonight. And you felt like going for it.”

“I do not understand.” Dimitri says, shaking his head. Pauses, thinks. And repeats, “I do not understand. What makes you say these things? I made a promise, and I mean to keep it. And you…you are not a warm companion? That, I also do not understand.”

“I’m…kind of a difficult person. I know that.” Claude admits. “We didn’t get married for love. That’s no secret between us.”

“No,” Dimitri says. “But you say that as if you did not go out of your way to encourage me during the conference. As though you did not memorize how I take each and every tea, or, hells, as though you didn’t drag me out of a formal banquet that we both despised to go running about the city simply for the fun of it.”

At Claude’s wide eyes, he brazenly steps forward, and for all his size, imposing and intimidating, he exudes uncertainty. Shy, and unsure, so very unsure, that he almost looks—

“Is that not all true? Or will you tell me it is part of some plan of yours, too?”

“And what if it is?” Claude’s mouth mocks a smile. “If you’re doing well, we’ll do well together. You need to be in good form if we’re going to get anything done.”

Leaves skitter along the ground at a breeze, rasping along the stone and over patches of ground where it’s been worn through. A few catch at their ankles, before fluttering away.

“…I do not believe you are so cold-hearted. Not for a moment. Why pretend you are?” Dimitri whispers, casting down his eye. “Why run from me? Why push me away? Do I frighten you so, as well?”

“I have been told, by several trustworthy sources, that you are a very frightening man.”

“…Yes. I suppose that is true. Then perhaps I can’t blame you. Maybe it is my fault alone. That I have chained you to such a brute as myself.”

Dimitri’s broad shoulders seem to wilt, his hair falling about his face.

One step, two step, three step—

He almost jumps in shock as careful fingers brush it aside, tucking blonde strands away from azure and porcelain, staring into the shade of green he _does_ like best.

“I’m not afraid of you, you know.” Claude confesses. His smile is more natural now, more true to summer blooms and sunny winds. “What _I_ don’t know, is how you can so readily trust _me._ ”

Unsure of what that means, Dimitri answers simply, “I just do. I have no reason not to.”

“…I see.”

Before, Claude’s hands were so warm. But just now, they were rather cold, perhaps by way of the later hour, with the sunlight further and further behind.

Without thinking, he gently catches it back, rubbing it between his two larger hands, trying to ward off the chill.

More than anything else, he feels Claude’s stare, his chest flipping uncomfortably. His lungs struggle around the breath that his mind tries to meet with words.

“I do not feel alone.” He confesses, keeping his eye on their joined hands. At the archer's calluses of Claude’s skin, the rises and falls of his strong palm and the lines that web a map over it; how his knuckles feel beneath his own fingertips.

“I have felt…less alone.” Dimitri clarifies.

Just as the sun seems to shine just for Claude, Dimitri wishes he could draw such power from the moon above; yet, nature will not be that kind to him tonight, and he feels himself faltering.

“…May I have your other hand?”

Wordlessly, Claude offers it to him to take, letting him begin warming it between his own.

“…I cannot criticize or judge you, for seeking better…companionship of your own. Just as you, I suppose, see yourself as an unsuitable partner, I must acknowledge my own shortcomings. And there are…very many. I wish that were not so, and yet, this is what you surely feel as well.”

It is loud, a little too loud, when Claude shifts, boot grinding over the loose grit. He smells like woodsmoke and peony, and Dimitri almost flinches, thinking he is about to pull away.

After a tense moment, and once he is assured that he is not, Dimitri continues, ever quieter. So hushed, that Claude now has to lean in a bit to catch the hesitant acknowledgement.

“If you feel that your needs are not met by me, then…you may find them satisfied elsewhere.” Dimitri refuses to look up, keeps talking around the tangled wire in his ribs. “Ah, I…do not know if it would be better for me to know, or be none the wiser of it. I suppose you can use your own discretion.”

“…Dimitri. I don’t have a lover.”

Hushed as the end of a hearth fire, his whispers are as smoke, curling up and away in sweet and graceful dance.

“I don’t plan on looking for one. And I won’t, ever. Not if.” A pause. A sigh, not resigned, but admission, a secret laid bare. “Not if it would hurt you. Which I can see it would.”

Dimitri slowly raises his eye.

“…No? You would not?”

“No.” Earnest, Claude’s hand closes around his, as though in a vow renewed. Now quite warm, his cheeks reddened as well; perhaps from the biting cold that he despises so very much. “I don’t want to hurt you, Dimitri. Even if I wanted, your pain wouldn’t be worth it. I couldn’t do it to you.”

They are alone, in this street. Far behind are the thick of people, and here, in the shadows of tall, narrow houses, with their wooden beams and quivering blankets of gold-green ivy, the silence alone greets them. Aside from dim, fractured flickers of light from windows and distant street lamps, the only light they have is the moon.

It is in this contrasting light that Claude can see so clearly the pure blue of Dimitri’s eye, and in turn be seen for the melting of his smile, more honest than he wishes it to be.

The solitude sways them to quiet, and for all the excitement earlier, the loudest melody is the thrumming of their pulses, speaking for their quickly beating hearts.

“…You mean that? Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Claude mumbles, voice gone low. “Yeah, I mean it. You trust me, don’t you?”

“I do,” Without hesitation, Dimitri assures, “I do.”

“Good.”

So close now, that Dimitri can feel Claude’s breath on his cheek; he brings their hands closer, as though he could fold them right into his chest to soothe the ache that has settled sweet and sharp within it.

“And you trust me, as well?”

“Mm. Yeah. You’re too sincere for me not to.”

A light laugh, a hot breath, lips widening in a tantalizing curve.

“…Claude…”

“Yeah?”

Swallowing the doubt threatening to seize his throat, Dimitri reaches, blindly, glances, turns redder at Claude’s airy laughter when he holds up his other hand for him to grasp.

“Before we go back. Please.” He asks. Such a small request, but, and yet, and yet— 

“Please. One more dance?”

He braces himself to be laughed at, to be rebuffed, neither of which, he is sure his heart can stand.

Instead, Claude straightens his back, tilts his face up to meet Dimitri, and smirks like a fae come to Fodlan.

“Yeah. One more dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how many pretentious running themes, gags, and jokes can I fit into one story? stay tuned.
> 
> i swear sitting around and drinking tea is not all they do.
> 
> thank you pari, for letting me brainstorm in our DMs and encouraging me with every chapter ♡
> 
> and thank you for everyone who continues to read, comment, and support. it really means a lot, even though i am sometimes too forgetful or too shy to reply. i treasure every one. ♡ i love seeing the reactions, and the predictions too :D


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After re-reading the last chapter, I have to say that I really need to be more careful about my slapdash writing. So many mistakes...so very sloppy. I'm amazed people have been so forgiving with all my fuck ups;;; I'll try to do better;;;

Under the cover of iron-colored clouds, Dimitri and Claude’s boots tap over cobblestone and packed dirt. Aside from the occasional scurrying of a rat, the fluttering of a crow overhead, all is quiet around them. Calm, beneath the night’s heavy veil.

Fortunately, as they move from shadow to shadow, things are peaceful as they approach the Fhirdiad royal palace. No screeching whistles, shouting guards, harried footsteps of clinking armor.

Dimitri gives him a boost to climb over the wall, Claude reaching down and helping him to scale it himself. Quietly, they drop down into the grass, grown more wild in the lesser-happened upon corners of the castle grounds.

The sounds of the party are still, from what they can glean as they creep nearer, still cheerful.

“You know what,” Claude whispers, grinning, “I think we’re _good_.”

By the time they have snuck back upstairs and changed back into their formal clothes, the excitement, the thrill, of the entire affair, having _gotten away with mischief_ , a feat Dimitri has never set out to or accomplished on his own, has only sunk in further.

Their disguises, along with the masks, go into the sack and hidden back inside the secret wall compartment, to be retrieved later on.

In true crafty fashion, Claude has a bottle of cologne to apply to himself, covering up any sort of giveaway from the scents they had spent the last few hours doused in.

“I couldn’t find your scent anywhere,” Claude says as he dabs some behind his ear, over his wrists. “You can borrow mine for now.”

“I don’t use any—”

His mouth stops working of its own accord when Claude’s hand reaches up to brush gently behind his ear. Then the other. The tips of his fingers trace a line down his neck, beneath his jaw.

“Oh, yeah?” Drawing back, as though he hadn’t just drawn a line of chilling fire down his skin, Claude runs a hand through his disheveled hair as he turns to start his way down the hall. “Guess that explains why I couldn’t find it, then.”

When his heart begins to beat again, Dimitri follows. The light from the intermittent windows, the lamps along the wall, cast plays of shadow and light as they return downstairs.

With one last, shared smile, they slip through the door, back into the ballroom, and into the banquet, with hopefully, no one the wiser.

•••❂❂❂•••

“Where have you _been?_ ”

Annette is the first to accost them, her sweet face pouting up at the two of them.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Annette,” Dimitri apologizes genuinely. “Were you looking for us?”

“Felix got all squirmy on me and ran off, and Hilda has spent the last like, _hour,_ flirting with Dedue! Oh, if only Mercie could have made it…”

“Hilda was _what—”_ Claude chokes on a laugh, trapping it behind the hand he clasps to his mouth.

“Yeah, I dunno! She’s barely ever talked to him before, far as I know. But we were chatting, and then he asked where Dimitri was, and then she just started batting her eyes at him, all like this.” Annette demonstrates, folding her hands below her chin and making sweet, coy eyes, shimmying her shoulders. “ _Oh, Dedue, you’re so tall and strong! Why, I would have nothing to fear were I to walk around the gardens at night! Please, won’t you show them to me? I bet the view is sooooo lovely!”_

“I-I see.” Dimitri tries to keep the laugh out of his voice, the punches of air threatening to burst from his chest. Claude is even worse than he is, positively _wheezing_ into a handkerchief. “Where is he now? If he was looking for me, I ought to find him.”

“Oh, I think they’re still walking the grounds somewhere.” She cranes her neck, looking around. “How long could that take, _really?_ ”

“Er, well, let’s leave them to it,” Dimitri barely manages to get the words out. Truly, a horrendous liar, through and through. Annette’s giving him an odd look, and he clears his throat. “How are you, Annette? I’m sorry you were left searching for us for so long, and all alone.”

“Oh, oh no, I, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sound so bratty,” Flushing a bit, she brings an embarrassed hand to her cheek. “I just wanted to say hello, really. I haven’t seen either of you since the wedding.”

“True enough,” Claude sweeps in with a disarming smile. Apparently, he’s over his choking fit, though he’s still wiping a tear from one corner of his eye. “It’s nice to see you again. And that’s so very unfair, considering that you live right here in the city. So close, and yet, so far.”

Yes, indeed! We should definitely get together more often! O-oh, um, when you can, of course. And! Don’t forget, you still promised to come see Mercie’s church with me!”

“I definitely haven’t forgotten. Dimitri _definitely_ did, I have to keep reminding him. Every other day, it's _'Dimitri, remember how we said we'll go visit Mercedes' church with Annette?'_ And he's all, _'oh goodness, dear me, I have completely forgotten yet again!'_ ”

“…Claude…”

Knowing Annette’s interest in music, they decide to reacquaint her with Dorothea, whom they find sitting firmly on Ingrid’s lap in a corner of the yard.

Ingrid, incredibly red-faced, barely manages a handful of words, what with the other woman’s arm about her shoulders.

“Why, hello again, your royal Majesties,” Dorothea’s eyes sparkle with pure trouble, her pink-painted lips making a truly sinuous curve. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Who could imagine us being _here_ , of all places?” Claude has the audacity to joke. “Say, that’s a lovely chair you’re seated on.”

“ _Isn’t_ it?”

Ingrid can’t bear to look at any of them, burying her face into her hands.

When Dedue shows himself again, emerging from the garden paths with Hilda on his arm, he’s stern-faced as ever, yet his subtle exasperation shows itself in the weary corners of his mouth.

“Oh, there you are!” Hilda sing-songs, “Thank you for the tour, Dedue! You’re a real dear, I mean that. Truly, you're a splendid gentleman!”

With a twinkling wave, she releases him to steal Claude for herself again, dragging him away for, if Dimitri had to guess, a full and complete account of their escapade.

Dedue watches her leave, Dimitri quickly procuring a glass of champagne to hide his traitorous mouth as it threatens to break into a grin.

“Hilda is a strange creature.” He finally concludes. “Truly odd.”

Dimitri hums in neutral agreement, while Dedue turns back to him, expression turning contemplative.

“Hm? Something on your mind, Dedue?”

“You seem to be in higher spirits than you were earlier this evening.”

“Oh, um…is that right?”

“Yes, I believe so. And you are…rather flushed. Are you alright, Your Highness?”

“Dimitri,” He corrects gently, “And, er. Perhaps I have had too much to drink.”

“You do not seem intoxicated. Are you sure you are feeling well? You don’t have fever, do you?”

“Dedue, please, I am fine!” Dimitri assures him. “Do not be concerned. Focus on having a good time for yourself.”

“I cannot, if I am worried for you.”

“I assure you, I am well.” Dimitri lays a hand on Dedue’s massive shoulder. “Very much so. More than even I realized, I think.”

Even back among the sea of nobility, of careful manners and calculated laughter, Dimitri is still…elated. Buoyant, his chest full and warm as his stomach is, what with all the food Claude had shoved at him throughout the evening.

Whom he can see now, still, through a parting of the crowd. Sitting on a bench with Hilda as she laughs and bumps shoulders with him. He’s telling her some tale, Dimitri is sure, as he weaves a braid in her loose hair, while she snickers and gasps appropriately at every turn.

Dimitri’s shoulders have loosened, though stands so grounded, with a straight back and chin tucked high. Dedue follows his distant gaze.

He smiles to himself, and says nothing else.

•••❂❂❂•••

Later that night, the guests depart, and the lamps go out one by one, like golden stars making way for the coming daybreak. Only once everyone is gone, once all the farewells have been exchanged, do the kings retire to their apartment, gratefully retreating to the quiet of their own halls.

“ _So_ glad you let me talk you into our little trip tonight.” Claude calls as Dimitri reenters the bedroom, from where he lays across the bed. No surprise, there is a book propped open for his incessant reading.

“Did you talk me into it,” Dimitri wonders aloud, “Or did you drag me into following your lead with little to no explanation whatsoever?”

“Well. You still came.” Claude stretches contentedly, long and slow, a satisfied groan creaking up his throat. “I just figured the less time I gave you to argue, the better.”

Dimitri deftly catches the book as it slides off his chest, and Claude lets out a surprised yelp, before taking it from him with a sigh of relief.

“I did.” Dimitri agrees. “Mind you, I will not be so obedient all of the time. You cannot _always_ get your way, you know.”

“Sure. We’ll see about that.” Claude sings cheekily. Setting the book on the bedside drawers, he relaxes back against the mattress, arms folded behind his head.

“We will indeed.”

Laughing at Dimitri’s challenge, Claude quips some other smart remark while Dimitri crosses the room to draw the curtains the rest of the way closed. Leisurely making his way back towards the bed, he puts out the lights as he goes, the smoke delicately peeling, curling away from each extinguished candlewick.

The last one, he hesitates.

Because…

It hasn’t escaped Dimitri that Claude only goes to bed when he himself does, or afterwards. Never has he been so…

Utterly relaxed. Comfortable, and vulnerable, in Dimitri’s presence. Eyes closed, breath coming and going in gentle inhale-exhale with the slopes of his chest. His exposed throat, the taper of shoulder to rib, from waist to hip—

For a mad, devastating moment, Dimitri wants to explore those lines.

Has to hold his breath against the urge, close his eye, and will it away with all the other terrible impulses his mind summons.

None the wiser, Claude turns over, and Dimitri faces the expanse of his back, a profile that he wants to learn with more than his vision alone.

Alas.

It would surely only scare him off.

After all.

Why _wouldn’t_ the deer run from the lion?

“No nightmares tonight, okay?” Claude murmurs when Dimitri slides in from the other side of the bed. His eyes are halfway open, voice a secret-quiet whisper. Smiling. Teasing.

Like they’re nothing to be afraid of at all.

“I will try.” Dimitri replies, uncertain as they face each other.

“That’s all you can do.” Claude murmurs, drawing the covers further up over them, eyes drifting shut.

Drowsy, but fascinated, Dimitri wills his own to stay open. Tracing shapes of violet shadows, wanting to draw maps with his fingertips.

Ear, cheekbone, brow.

“I suppose.”

“We need our beauty sleep, you know. Tell them to bug off.”

Nose, jaw, neck.

“They don’t listen to me, I’m afraid.”

“Mm.” Claude yawns, just barely covering his mouth with a hand that then falls lax on the pillow between them. “Then. Tell them you’ll have a very grumpy husband if they don’t.”

“I would not like that.”

In the dark, Claude laughs, the sound as soft as a cloud.

Mouth.

“Goodnight, Dimitri.”

“Goodnight.”

•••❂❂❂•••

“Okay, so come on, _dish_ already!”

Hilda gently blows on her drying, vivid pink nails, manicured to perfection.

“Dish on what?”

“Oh come _on_ ,” She heaves an indignant puff of breath, leaning in shoving him in the shoulder, before swinging her legs up to cross her ankles over his lap. She’s situated herself comfortably beside him on the sofa of the small library. It’s one of his favorites, as though there is such a thing as an _awful_ library in his book.

Small, cozy, tucked in one of the more obscure hallways of the manor. The eclectic collection in its stacks mean that not many people actually need anything from it, and so he often takes his own reading in here to be alone.

“The _festival!_ Tell me how your little date went.”

“First of all, it wasn’t a date.” In turn, Claude props his book up onto her foot, flipping a page. “Second, you have to tell me first. Did you _really_ flirt with Dedue?”

“I panicked, okay!?” Pausing, she hums in thought. “Actually, you know _what?_ Isn’t he a _really_ good cook? He’s so good at sewing too, and he knows how to garden. Maybe it’s…not such a crazy idea…”

“You might as well put that to rest right now.” Claude warns. “He’s practically spoken for.”

“Waaaiit, seriously!?”

“I’m _amazed_ you aren’t privy to this particular piece of gossip.” Claude shrugs. “I mean, nothing’s official, as far as I know, but that’s setting up to, probably, getting your heart broken.”

She squeals with delight when she learns it’s a sweet-faced, freckle-cheeked archer on whom everyone is placing their bets, when it comes to Dedue’s steady, loyal heart.

“Oh, and Ashe is _so_ cute!” She giggles. “Alright, alright, I can see that. Now, back onto the main topic, _your date with Dimitri_ —”

“Not a date.” Claude reminds her while she rolls her eyes, before checking her nails again.

“Whatever,” Clearly not buying it, she carefully picks at a cuticle. “What’d you do?”

“Just wandered around, you know. Eating some street food, grabbing some drinks…oh, I got him to _dance_ , believe it or not.”

“So what? We danced here, too… _Ohhhh_ , wait, you mean like the rowdy commoner ones!?”

“Yeah, those.”

“Really!? It’s so hard to imagine him being so…carefree!”

“Admittedly, he was a little stiff at first, but. He got into the swing of it, after a while.”

“I bet it was a real sight! I would’ve loved to be there, rather than covering for you. Even if it _was_ kinda fun.”

Claude grins. “…You totally missed it. This woman he danced with was hitting on him. _Hard_. She was really pretty, too.”

“Hah! I bet he got all flustered.”

“Oh, no, he was _oblivious_. She was totally ready to let him under her skirt, and he blew it big time.”

“Blew it, huh? Not like he could have gone off with her _anyway_ , what with you being married and all…”

“I told him he could, if he really wanted to. What does it matter to _me_ , you know? I’m just another player on the board for him.”

Ignoring her searching eyes, he focuses instead on the words in front of him. Running over the same few lines without grasping any of it, before he turns the page anyway.

“That really wouldn’t bother you? “I mean, it would bother _me_ . Some other person, making moves on _my_ husband? No way! I’d probably get super jealous.”

“Dimitri can do what he likes, with whomever he likes.” Claude insists. “As long as it doesn’t cause us actual _trouble._ ”

“If you say so.” Hilda says skeptically, lightly, as though she _still_ doesn’t believe him. Then, gasps, excitedly pattering at his arm. “Oh, oh! I forgot to tell you! Guess who _we saw_ on the walk around the garden last night?”

“Who?” He asks, grateful for the change of topic.

“Felix and Sylvain!” Hilda squeaks. “Right by the lake! They must have sneaked away when no one was looking. Being all lovey-dovey. I wanted to stay and spy on them a little longer, but Dedue was all, _no, no, we should give them privacy._ Oh, but Claude, it was. _So. Romantic._ Who would have thought _those_ two could really be so cute? Slowly walking by a lake holding hands, whispering sweet little nothings…”

“You’re lucky that’s _all_ you found them doing.”

“Oh, _stop._ ” She hisses and smacks him, which only makes him laugh.

Sighing dreamily, she muses, “I wish I could experience something like that one day. But _no,_ I’m surrounded by _total brutes_.”

Claude chuckles, the words on his page starting to make a little more sense, not minding as Hilda reaches for his hand.

“One day, I’m sure someone will snatch you up. In the meantime, you’ll have to make do with pretending to court Dedue until Ashe finally stakes his claim.”

“Ugh. If Dorothea hadn’t already called dibs on Ingrid. She would _always_ take care of me.”

“I’m beginning to think you’ve never met Ingrid. She’s the most decidedly _unromantic_ person I’ve ever met. She’d give you a training regimen for a gift and take you sparring for a date. And throw in a lecture, if she were feeling particularly saucy that day.”

“Okay, okay, you’re right. She’s a _hard worker_. She’d never let me just be a trophy wife.”

Claude snorts.

“I bet Dimitri would be romantic,” She teases, “If you let him.”

“I don’t need him to be romantic. I need him to be in one piece. It doesn’t—I—did you _paint my nails!?”_

“Don’t whine, and give me your other hand. This color looks _so good_ on you. By the way, is it true Felix is coming back to Alliance territory with us!?”

“It’s true. Prepare for him being an incredible bitch about it the entire way.”

“If he wants bitchy, he picked a fight with the _wrong_ person.”

“Oh, no. Actually, if anything, I picked the fight.” Claude frowns at his nails. “But thanks for the vote of confidence on my character.”

“I—wha—Claude! What did I tell you about the friends of your spouse?! Get on their _good_ side! What’d you go and make enemies with _Felix_ for?! He’s one of Dimitri’s best friends!…I _think._ ”

“I didn’t make enemies with him. He just hates me.”

“…You’ve lost me.”

“Long story short, he’s so protective of Dimitri that he’s been wary of me from the beginning. I decided to pull him physically out of the Sreng situation for a bit to let those tensions die down, and he did _not_ like it.”

“Ugh. So we have to deal with him scowling at us the whole time?”

“Chances are, he’ll probably ignore me, and by extension you, as much as he possibly can.”

“Well. Okay, I can deal with _that_. Give me your other hand.”

“Hilda, _no._ Take this _off!_ ”

“Give it a chance—hey, be careful! It isn’t dry yet, you’ll get it _everywhere!_ ”

“ _Hilda!_ ”

“ _Claude!”_

•••❂❂❂•••

Things like jealousy and possessiveness have so seldomly found a place in Claude’s life, he’s not even sure what it’s like.

Not that he has _never_ experienced them before. But they have always been petty, fleeting emotions that he could toss away with little more than a second thought.

This, though. This, he does not understand. It’s not either one of those things, but it’s something akin to them.

A poignant, twisting ache, the morning Sylvain takes his leave to depart for Fraldarius.

Like a persistent animal has crept into his chest and clamped its jaws around everything in it.

It’s the look in his eyes when he looks at Felix that does it. 

He’s sure that they have given each other their real farewells already. Likely, on their little lakeside excursion the previous night. After all, Felix is not the type for emotional, teary partings, and Sylvain is not the type to show his most honest feelings as easily as ink on a page.

Even if the one, the most important one, is written all over his face when he tucks a lock of hair behind Felix’s ear. Unflinching, adoring, when his hand is shoved away, only to return it seconds later to brush the back of his knuckles down his face.

Claude watches the exchange from the balcony, in wonder at how rather than another rebuke, Felix leans into it, rests his hand over Sylvain’s, as though to keep him there.

“They’ve always been inseparable.” Dimitri comments beside him. “I simply cannot imagine them apart.”

Claude glances at him. Takes in his golden profile in the silvery autumn air.

The animal bites down harder.

“It’s really something.” He says finally, and it’s true. When he looks at Felix and Sylvain at this moment, they truly look like what they are; lifelong companions. In sweet and painful love, weaving their lives into one.

“Shame they can’t get married yet. Because of _politics._ ”

Oh, the _irony_ . If the situation weren’t so cruel, maybe he’d laugh. That _they_ are the ones who stood at an altar, for nothing but tangible gain.

“One day,” Dimitri says wistfully. “Perhaps they will, if they so choose.”

Sylvain had said his cheery goodbyes to everyone last night before they had left the banquet. Giving Annette and Ingrid encompassing hugs, gracefully accepting a neatly packaged bundle of quills Dedue had apparently made, promising to safely pass them onto its intended recipient, waiting patiently in the north to return home.

He’d been nonchalant as he’d left alongside Felix, as though nothing at all could be on his mind.

There’s no making out their conversation from here, and even he, in all his curiosity, wouldn’t purposefully eavesdrop on so delicate a thing.

Felix turns, just slightly, just enough that he can make out the look on his face.

The animal’s jaws tighten.

“Wow. He _can_ actually smile.”

“It’s rare, but it happens.” Dimitri acknowledges, before stepping away and urging, “Come. We should give them a moment to be truly alone.”

“Alright, alright. I’ve caused them enough grief. I can give them that.”

The clouds have returned. But in the place of rain, a chilly wind has covered the ground, heralding the arriving cold. Some are saying that they may even see snow within the next few weeks, although it’s a little too early for that.

So he hopes, anyway. It’d be nice of the weather to hold off on their trips.

_Just a little longer, Fodlan skies?_ Claude wishes silently, with one last look, before he follows Dimitri inside. _Look out for us?_

By the fireplace, he joins Dimitri in going over the revisions and notes that they’ve compiled for the border point. He’d be bringing them along, to be passed onto his parents and their counselors.

Sooner or later, they would have an actual meeting. But for now, this will do.

Admiring the beautifully bound book for the hundredth time, Dimitri turns one page, then another, while Claude sits beside him. Watching his wonder, his fascination. The little dimple that presses by the corner of his mouth when he’s on the verge of smiling, but not quite there.

“Even the paper is lovely.” Dimitri murmurs.

“Maybe there will be some merchants hanging by the border,” Claude suggests, “If there are, maybe I could bring a stack of something like it back for you.”

“Oh, please don’t worry about something like that.”

“I promised Sylvain I’d make Felix bring him back a nice souvenir. I should bring you one, too, you know?”

“There’s no need.”

Lifting his head, hair falling in tidy dishevelment about his face, Dimitri assures him, “All I wish is for your safe return.”

Somehow, it’s always Dimitri’s honesty that always leaves him wanting for breath. His straightforward earnestness, of all things, is what shakes all the words from his mind, to jumble in the back of his throat.

And there is no denying that it is sincere. Not with the look in his eye like that, velvet sky and powder snow, the low timber of his voice that Claude wishes he could _touch_ , just to read its notes by hand.

“And—” Clearing his throat, Dimitri turns back to the pages. “Felix as well, of course. Hopefully, all will go well.”

“Ah, yeah,” Claude reads over his own notes as though they weren’t written by his own hand after a thousand revisions. “But no matter how you slice it, the trip to the Adrestrian territories will be way more risky than the little trip to the border.”

“Still,” Dimitri insists. “Anything could go wrong. If I were a praying man, I would offer them for your success. As it is, you will have to make do with my dearest wishes instead, and hopefully, that will be enough.”

“It’s enough.” Claude assures him, transfixed on Dimitri’s hand, so carefully holding the precious tome. Scarred. Heavy. The thin bones that run between wrist to knuckles cast sharp shadows and stark lines of light along the back of his hand. And still, are so gentle.

“It’s more than enough.”

•••❂❂❂•••

The next two days pass without incident. Felix remains scarce from either Dimitri or Claude’s sight. According to Ingrid, whatever time isn’t spent in the training yards with their newly traumatized class of soldier recruits, is spent out in the city with Annette.

The morning of departure, Dimitri manages to find him in the stable, readying his horse.

“Felix,” He calls from the doorway. “A word before you go. Please.”

Felix’s back pulls taut, shoulders tensing as he tends to Wilhelmina.

She’s a beautiful horse, black as jet all but for white around her ankles; they dissolve to dappled flecks up around her knees, and look rather like scattering spots of snow. Appropriate, for where they live.

As Dimitri understands, she was a gift from Sylvain for Felix’s last birthday, after his favored one had passed on. She’s sweet and gentle; Ingrid had helped pick her from the breeder, and indeed, she whinnies and nudges lovingly at Felix’s hood, probably sensing his mood.

“Go on, then.” Felix replies curtly. “And be quick about it.”

Biting back a sigh, Dimitri checks to make sure they are alone, before stepping further inside.

“I know you are cross with Claude,” He says hesitantly. “And I understand why you are upset with me as well. But I…I hope you understand. I hesitated to contradict him in the moment. I did not want to risk undermining him. But I know that you likely feel betrayed, as…someone whom you’ve known for far longer than you’ve known him. Perhaps I should have come to your defense…I don’t know if that would have been better. Despite all that, I. I want you to know—”

“Get to the point, Dimitri.”

Turning, Felix’s arms cross tightly over his chest. “What is it that you actually want to say?”

Their eyes meet, and hold.

“I’m sorry, Felix. I want us to be friends. As I always have.” Dimitri says plainly. Pauses, sees Felix unmoved, and adds, “And I would like you to give him a chance at your friendship as well.”

The air is so frigidly quiet between them, still as a frozen lake. From outside, there come muffled shouts of stablehands and stewards, and even farther off, a screech that could only be Nylah.

“What a joke.” Felix shakes his head, and turns back to finish adjusting Wilhelmina’s saddle.

And again, another sigh fills Dimitri’s lungs, and he struggles to keep this one suppressed.

“I don’t need to be friends with him.” Felix snaps. “And it’s extremely rich that for all your talk of wanting to salvage whatever remnants of our friendship are left, you continue to ignore every word out of my mouth.”

“That is not true.” Dimitri protests. “I hold your opinion in high regard.”

“Really?” Felix throws his hands down in exasperation. “I told you to be cautious of him, and you went and _married_ him. I advised you to let the Alliance territories handle the border point with your supervision, and instead you’re investing far too much of yourself into it. I was of the opinion that your trip into the old Empire territories was too risky, and it would be better to call its lords to deliberate in Fhirdiad, and you ignored that, too. And when I told you to consider the potential disaster in sending an Alliance-Almyran war leader to its border to meet their armies and march them through the country, you decided that your _faith_ in him was enough to overlook it.”

“ _Felix,_ ” Equally frustrated, Dimitri bites his lip, resisting the incredibly strong urge to roll his eyes. “I took everything you said into consideration. Truly, I did. But I had to make my own decisions on these things, and it is not fair to say I did not simply because I didn’t _follow_ them. I have reasons for all of it.”

“…Whatever.” Felix huffs, pressing fingertips to massage his temple. “Go on letting him do as he pleases simply by batting his eyelashes at you.”

Dimitri gapes at him, on the terrible, hair-raising border between offense and embarrassment.

“What do you mean by that? I—he is governing with me. Of course my actions will be influenced by him, he doesn’t simply decide things on his own.”

“No. Not just that.”

Briefly, Felix glances at him, gaze sharpening like a blade on a whetstone, before he turns its edge elsewhere.

“Do you even hear yourself? Pleading me to be his _friend_ , as though I have a single care to, when I am simply his vassal. Taking foolish risks with your Kingdom _and_ yourself, because a silver-tongued prince has decided it amuses him to put a ring on your finger.”

“Gods above, Felix, that is not-” Unable to bite back a single frustrated groan, Dimitri feels himself flush. “Having him here has been a saving grace, and you have unfortunately been too far removed from everything to see it. And that is not your fault, but—”

Dimitri’s teeth clench painfully shut before he finally lets out the damn sigh, and it’s as forceful as a kick to the chest. “Do you really think so little of him, Felix? And of me? Even now? W...We are trying to bring Fodlan to prosperity. Everything I have done, alongside him, has been in service of that desire and duty as its royals. I would like you to be friends, to be on good personal terms, because he is _my husband_ and I call you _my friend_. One I care very deeply for. All I ask is that you swallow your pride, open your mind just a _little_ bit. If I must plead it of you, then so be it.”

“Saints above,” Felix mutters. “Where’s _your_ pride? You don’t have to plead _anything_ from me, you damned fool. You let him get his way on truly everything, don’t you? Right down to your ridiculous little outing at the banquet, because I am _sure_ that wasn’t a plot of _your_ hatching.”

Dimitri has the urge to throw something. Break something. _Hurt_ something. It crashes over him like a heady ocean wave, drowning out the world around his ears.

The impulse must show on him, because Felix’s stare cuts straight at him, true as a sword strike, and just as alert.

But it passes. With the clenching of his hands, a slow, deep breath, and the biting of his lip.

“I plead, because I do _not know what else to do with you_ .” Dimitri glares at the wall, then at Felix. “I don’t know how to reach you Felix. Truly, I don’t. Everything I do is _wrong_ , somehow. As much as I would like to reconcile, you remain as closed off and _willful_ as ever. One of your most admirable, and most frustrating qualities. I cannot force you to do anything.”

“Well,” Felix hisses, “Ask your damn husband. He’s found a way.”

Every time Dimitri thinks that Felix has found all the ways to press the knife in deeper, he finds a new one.

Whatever his face does, it makes Felix pause.

As the fight goes out of Dimitri, seeping from the new wound, it seems to drain from him as well, as he goes sullen and quiet.

“…That was uncalled for.” He says, catching Dimitri off guard. “Sorry.”

“…Do me one good turn,” Is what he replies as acknowledgement. And at least, Felix is listening, even if begrudgingly. “Make sure you both come back safely.”

At first, Felix doesn’t answer, busying his hands with untying Wilhelmina from her post.

“That, I know you can do. And…if it pleases you. Do try to understand Claude better, in the time you’ll have together. Maybe, you will find him worth believing in, as many, myself include, have.”

Wilhelmina’s hoofprints are as docile as she, following Felix’s lead.

“…Come on.” Felix tells him. “You blathered on too long. We have to go.”

•••❂❂❂•••

“You know I know how to ride a horse,” Claude raises an eyebrow at Dimitri, who offers his hand to help steady his mounting. “You know I regularly ride an animal _bigger_ than a horse, right?”

“I—oh,” Dimitri flushes, and withdraws. “Yes, of course.”

“Let me ride on Nylah.” Hilda leads up her own horse. “I forgot how cute she is.”

“Nice try. You just don’t want to smell like horse.”

“Whoops! You caught me.”

“You can take her out for a ride later, if you want.” Claude leans over in his saddle to give her a peck on the forehead. “She missed you too. She told me.”

“Ohhh, is that a fact?”

Nylah, along with the other wyverns, are loaded and secured into wagons at the end of the caravan. The last of their packs are secured, their soldiers falling to line behind and waiting for Claude’s lead.

“Be well, Your Majesty,” Ingrid bids, and throws an arm around Felix’s neck, pinching his cheek and laughing when he hisses and struggles beneath her love. “And please don’t bully our very favorite kitten too much.”

“Do _not_ start with that.” Felix snips, and brusquely turns to lift himself onto Wilhelmina’s saddle.

“We should get moving, before I ruin any more friendships around here.” Claude comments.

“Wait,” Hilda stares incredulously. “You gave _me_ a kiss. _Me_ , who is coming _with_ you. But you’re not going to give one to _Dimitri?_ You know, your _husband?_ ”

“Poor form, indeed, Your Majesty.” Ingrid mock-gasps behind her hand. “How _cold_.”

“We’re _going_ , now.”

Amid their joined laughter, Claude does give Dimitri one last look from atop his horse, his smile blurred at the edges with the sunlight.

“Joking of these cruel ladies aside. You take care as well.”

“I will.” Dimitri tells him, breathless at the sight.

“And Dedue. Take care of _him,_ wouldja?”

With a tiny upturn of his mouth, Dedue nods.

“Until your return.”

•••❂❂❂•••

The first two days of the journey go much as Claude expects. Felix keeps them at a distance, and despite Hilda’s very Hilda-like attempts at friendship, he brushes her off as he does with, well, most everyone.

A day of cold rain slows them for a day, but the next proves fair. Mountains and rivers pass them by, along with rustling trees, their leaves scattering like auburn snowflakes in the wind. Lovely, and wonderfully routine. Relaxing, even.

What turns out to be the largest surprise is— 

“What the fresh hell is _this_?!” Claude demands of Nylah, who, despite his warnings to Felix to keep his distance from her, to which he has _no_ objections to, doesn’t agree with. She has foregone her normal hostility _completely_ and has spent the last quarter of an hour trying to nestle against him while he maintenances his weapons.

“You’ve spent the last few months getting meaner and _meaner_ with Dimitri, and it’s love at first sight for _Felix?!_ He doesn’t even _like_ you! He doesn’t even like _me!_ ”

She chuffs, pressing her snout inquisitively to Felix’s arm, who promptly pulls away and grunts.

“Tell her to leave me alone.”

“Wow,” Hilda whistles. “She _never_ warms up to anyone that quickly. Nylah! Come here, honey!”

Nylah perks up, and when Hilda coos, patting her knees, she wanders over, to be rewarded with scratches beneath her chin.

“She doesn’t warm up to anyone _period_ . It is _literally_ just you and Byleth that she doesn’t hate.” Baffled, Claude’s jaw drops when, after a scarce few moments of attention, Nylah turns right back around to start walking back to Felix again. “Baby girl. What is the _meaning_ of this?”

“She’s got a crush, is what.” Hilda giggles. “Your _baby girl_ is growing up.”

“ _No!_ Don’t _say_ that!”

“Can’t you _control_ her?” Felix growls, trying in vain to put some space between them.

“Nylah!” Claude clicks his tongue, which finally summons her back to his side for good. “Come on, he’s already got an overgrown puppy that follows him around all day.”

Despite everything else, Felix lets out a sharp laugh. And immediately pretends he didn’t, running a gloved hand over his mouth and turning away.

•••❂❂❂•••

Dimitri leans his face into his hand.

And sighs.

Ingrid looks up from Claude’s desk, where she’s taken it upon herself to painstakingly organize all of his materials while he’s absent. He had warned her that Claude would complain at her. And he doesn’t look forward to mediating the argument that’s sure to come out of it.

“That was quite the sigh,” She observes, and carefully settles a stack of papers. “Are you alright?”

“I’m having a bit of trouble concentrating.” He admits, sitting back in his seat.

“You have been sighing nonstop for days, now.” Dedue finishes cutting up an apple. He sets the plate on Dimitri’s desk, watching expectantly until he takes the hint and relents enough to reach for a piece.

Not that he can taste much of it, but it gives him something to focus on, other than the blur of words on the papers before him.

“Have you been sleeping well? Eating enough?” Going down the checklist, Ingrid tilts her head at him. “Maybe some exercise would help? Or perhaps a ride with Anais?”

“Please, don’t worry. I am feeling well.”

“You’ve seemed…how should I say, distracted, lately.”

“I suppose I have been.” He admits, taking a second apple slice under Dedue’s piercing watch.

“You’ve also been sighing an _awful_ lot. Not just today, but— _oh._ ”

Dimitri looks up, mouth full. “Mm?”

Dedue is smiling, and Ingrid’s face is breaking out in a sparkling, joyous grin from ear-to-ear.

“Don’t tell me. _Could it be…?_ ”

“What?”

“I don’t believe it. _You miss Claude._ ”

Dimitri chokes.

“I— no. No, not like that—well, perhaps I am accustomed to his presence. Maybe the silence is throwing me off. It’s not that I—please, I beg you, _both_ of you, stop looking at me like that!”

“ _Dima!_ ” Ingrid laughs, “A few days without him, and you’re _moping!_ ”

“I am not _moping._ ”

“Oh?!” She teases, whirling around the desk to throw her arms around his neck and pull him in, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “What else do you call that hangdog look on your face, then!?”

“Ingrid!”

Dimitri does not _whine_.

“You miss him! You miss your husband! You _miss_ that clown!”

Dimitri whines.

“ _Ingrid, please_.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” She finally relents, smoothing his hair back down. But rather than release him, she cradles him against her in a way that would very much embarrass him, if anyone other than Dedue were in the room. As it were, he is standing, the warmth radiating off him, as it does Ingrid. “I think it’s nice. Really.”

Dimitri _sulks_ , but relaxes into her hold, muttering into her arm, “You’re making too much of it.”

Faintly, he feels her rest her chin atop his head. “We miss him too, in a weird way. He sure makes things lively around here, doesn’t he? Never a dull moment with that scamp about.”

“…That much is true.” He cautiously admits.

“I’m almost starting to miss having to carry him back to work like the big baby he is. But jokes aside. I’m glad, you know.” Holding him just that much closer, Ingrid tilts her head, to rest her cheek against his golden crown of hair. “It’s been so long, Dimitri.”

“Since…?”

“Since I’ve seen you happy.”

•••❂❂❂•••

Their company is only a few dozen soldiers; easy enough to travel with, decent enough numbers if anything unexpected occurs.

Every night they make camp, Hilda pouts when Claude reluctantly kicks her out of his tent when she starts to doze off on his mat.

“Last thing I need is people thinking _I’m_ fooling around on the side. _Especially_ while we’re en route to see Holst.” He tells her. “ _Especially_ considering the fuss I kicked up in his face when rumors of Dimitri and Byleth were floating around. I’d have to really eat it if I did the same thing.”

“Fine, _fine_.” Hilda sighs. “I get it.”

She bids him goodnight with a kiss to the cheek and disappears alone into her own tent.

Above, the stars are out in full glory, the sky so perfectly clear to make way for their light. Aside from the handful of small fires, surrounded by hushed conversation, a few lanterns for moths to buzz around, their camp is quiet and still, much like the river they’ve settled beside.

More drawn to the prospect of watching than sleeping, Claude idly wanders. Exchanging nods with soldiers whose eyes he catches, stepping over outstretched legs of those dozing, he follows the stars to the edge of camp.

Right by the river’s edge sits Felix. Alone, and probably content that way, around his own small fire to which he feeds a handful of dry leaves. As always, he is too alert by half, looking up at the sound of Claude’s approaching footsteps.

“Can I sit with you?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Felix replies gruffly, tossing a few twigs to the flames as well. Before Claude can accept the rejection and move on, a booted heel digs into the ground, and he adds on, tightly, “But. I can’t stop you.”

He leans forward to settle his elbows on his knees. A twig cracks, throwing up a smattering of sparks that drift up and into nothing.

“Thanks.”

For all that he’s known for his words, he knows that silence is sometimes more important. And now’s one of those times, the fire crackling with the uncomfortable tension between them.

He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t fight it. Lets it play out and wash over them.

Looks at Felix out of the corner of his eye.

“Stop staring at me.”

“Jeez,” Claude laughs and leans back on his outstretched palms. “Can’t get a single thing past you.”

Felix huffs.

Quiet again, Claude stargazes while Felix inspects a dagger, sharpening it along a small whetstone.

“Can I ask you something?” He finally ventures, casual as can be.

“You can ask,” Felix replies without looking up. “That doesn’t mean I will answer.”

“Alright. I can work with that for now, I guess.” Claude yawns, loudly. “Do you hate me?”

“You irritate me. But no. I don’t.”

“Do you hate Dimitri?”

The blade pauses.

Resumes grinding.

“Yes. And no.”

“…Hm. Interesting answer, if a bit cryptic. Alright, then. Do you think he’s a good king?”

Felix casts him a brief glance, oddly unreadable.

“He has good intentions. But he tries too hard. Is too conventional, too idealistic, in some ways.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Simple. He tries too hard to please everyone, to live up to each and every expectation. Because he’s too afraid of making a mistake, and wants to make everyone happy. It’s unrealistic, and a waste of energy.”

This is true enough. Glad that they’ve come to the same conclusion so far, Claude lets his head leisurely fall to the side, glad for the warmth of the fire.

“Byleth said that Dimitri doesn’t trust himself. Do you think that’s true?”

“Probably the case.” Felix concedes. “Now, why are you asking me about him? You’re the one who lives with him. I distinctly remember telling you to learn him for yourself.”

“Some outside perspective never hurts.” Claude answers with a shrug. “I’m curious what insight you might have that I don’t. You’ve known him much, much longer, after all.”

Felix doesn’t answer that, and he lets the silence take over a while longer while he gazes skyward.

“You know, Fraldarius,” Claude ventures after a few more minutes, “I really wish I knew what magic trick you’re hiding to make Nylah love you so much. She _still_ hates Dimitri, even more than other people. Snaps at him, even. Gets all fussy if he gets too close to either of us. It’s weird, even for her.”

Felix wipes the blade clean. “She knows another predator when she sees one.”

A frown threatens at Claude’s brow, but he fights it back, along with the little wave of indignation that rises.

“A predator, huh?”

“You knew that. You _know_ what he is.”

“…Do I?”

Felix glances over at him for the first time since he sat down.

“…Maybe you don’t.”

Claude expects him to go on after that; but he doesn’t, instead, he inspects his dagger one last time before sheathing it and slipping it back into place on his belt.

“…You gonna explain that, ooorrr…?”

“No.”

“Wow. Care to tell me why?”

“No. Enough talking.”

“You _suck_ , Fraldarius.”

“Now if only that meant you’d leave me alone.”

All in all, it’s the least hostile conversation they’ve had. Even if that bar is low, it’s something, and he takes it.

For the next few days, he keeps distance as well, hoping some of Felix’s ice will thaw.

He plays cards with some of the soldiers, freely chats with Hilda while they ride beside each other. Felix keeps to himself, guarding the edge of camp like a prowling wolf, occasionally sparring (and decimating) some of the other soldiers.

And then one evening, he finds Felix again, at the edge of camp, along a field of gently rolling hills, golden with overgrown wildgrass. A handful of fireflies weave in and out of the swaying fronds, humming and twinkling amid the rustle.

He waits to be noticed, which as ever, doesn’t take as long as it takes for him to even approach. His alertness is certainly uncanny, though terrible, in a way. He has never truly left the wartime frame of mind. Not with his homeland mired in its ominous breath.

“…Are you going to sit, or not?”

As close to an invitation as he can expect, and he takes a seat across the fire from him, gazing up at the sky overhead. It’s a little cloudy tonight, so unfortunately the stars aren’t very visible; he tries to pinpoint them anyway, while Felix sits in silence, fixing a seam in his satchel.

“Say, Fraldarius.”

“Hm?”

“Thought of something. A little extra perk to this trip for you.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’ve never crossed blades with an Almyran soldier, have you?”

Felix looks up.

•••❂❂❂•••

“Almyran warriors are _scary,_ ” Hilda tells Felix. “They’re all _huge_. And their weapons are different. Not to mention their fighting style.”

“How different?”

“I mean, I haven’t done a _lot_ of the fighting against them myself,” Hilda admits, combing a hand through her hair, loosening it from the braid she’d worn it in that day. “That’s mostly my brother.”

Felix’s eyes snap to Claude for elaboration.

“Wrestling is a _much_ bigger deal in Almyra than it is in Fodlan.” Claude tells him. “By comparison, Fodlan’s martial arts is more _polite_.”

“Wrestling, huh?”

“Not to say swordplay and weapon use isn’t common. But it’s not the only tool in an Almyran fighter’s arsenal. It’s a sport, a combat method, and a favorite social pastime all in one.”

Felix’s eyes widen in interest. “They must be resourceful warriors, then.”

“I mean, what happens if your sword breaks? Get caught unarmed?” Claude shrugs. “Yeah. We get scrappy.”

“No _kidding,_ ” Hilda interjects. “My brother told me that once, when he was fighting this soldier, and when he couldn’t break his guard, he just _threw_ his sword at Holst! Just _threw_ it! Who _does_ that!? But it took my brother off guard so much that the guy then just straight up _tackled_ him. He just _barely_ got out of that one, according to him.”

Felix is _riveted_.

If there were a wall nearby to bang his head on, Claude would. And then he’d laugh.

•••❂❂❂•••

For the rest of the trip, they remain in uneasy, unspoken truce. What surprises him is Felix finding him to sit beside for meals, asking questions in halting, bitten-out words, as though conversation is _painful._

He tolerates Nylah’s affections, just barely, even if he does call on Claude to restrain her when his patience runs out.

“Is he _trying?_ This is Felix trying to _be friendly?_ ” Hilda wonders. “That’s _bad_. But like…that’s a start, I guess.”

Not that he’s entirely sure what has made him decide to. But, hey.

A few more days on the road take them through territories that Claude had once led, familiarity settled over him like a blanket.

Coming home, and not.

The mountains of the eastern part of the Alliance are covered with lush forest, the lack of sprawling meadows made up for by majestic trees and enormous bedrock. Some are so large, they are almost mountains themselves, covered in patches of moss and webs of climbing vines.

The weather tends to stay warmer here than it does back towards Kingdom lands, enough so that flocks of birds still roam the skies. Eventually, they will migrate; for now, they screech and sing in turn, flapping overhead and creating an entire cacophony from the same trees that loom overhead, some as tall as the spires of Faerghus’ churches.

Beautiful, thriving, peaceful. Gold, and green, brimming with life even in the depths of the valleys they cross over, pass through, and all the way up to the mountain crests.

Hilda cheers when she spots the crown of the Goneril keep peek over the horizon.

“Yes! A _bed!_ ...Oh yeah, my _brother_ , too. I guess.”

•••❂❂❂•••

“Kiddo!” Nader bellows, slinging an arm around Claude and hauling him as easily as though he were a toddler. “What took you so long!?”

“Stop that! I said _stop_ ! Saints above, god _dammit_ Nader, I’m a _king_ , not a _child—”_

Nader turns to Hilda, throwing Claude up onto his shoulder to get him out of the way to offer her his hand.

“Lovely to see you again, Hilda.”

“You, too!” She sings cheerily, while Claude squirms and complains to whoever will listen, which in this case, is no one.

“Say, Dimitri looks a lot different than the last time I saw him,” Joking, Nader squints at Felix. “Did you get shorter? Oh, you let your hair grow out! Nah, just kidding. Fraldarius, right? Felix, was it? I remember you from the wedding. Good to see you. In good health, I take it?”

“Well enough.” Felix hesitantly takes Nardel’s outstretched hand, unsure how to react to…everything.

“…Can you _put me down_ , now?”

Claude lets out an _oof_ as Nader plops him on his feet, not particularly gently, and before he can run, scoops Felix up in both brawny arms, clapping him hard enough on the back to knock the wind from him.

“Heard the stories ‘bout you! Finest swordsman in Fodlan, they say! Kiddo wrote to tell me he only wanted the best to help ensure the cargo’s safe transport, and it sounds like he got it. And boy, there’s a lot! Queen got carried away, as usual.”

Dropping a breathless Felix back to touching ground, he doesn’t even wait for a response before peppering Hilda’s head in loud, smacking kisses.

“Now, come here _Princess Hilda!_ ”

“Your stubble’s scratching me!” She beats his shoulder with a fist, but she laughs, making no move to actually pull away.

True to his claims, the amount of supplies that Almyra had provided is enormous. Claude whistles as he takes stock of it all, running over the inventory Nader hands him.

Grain, flour, dried fruits and preserved meats, rice and barley; bolts of cloth, piles of blankets. Stacks of multicolored clothing and crates of boots. There’s even a few flocks of sheep and cows, bleating and braying under the gentle guidance of their handlers. A whole caravan of supplies. Medicines, salves, bandages, along with troupes of healers and doctors. Soldiers, to guard all of it, in disciplined formation with their golden armor and brightly dyed uniforms.

“This will go so far.” Claude admires. It’s more than even he had expected, and despite himself, he can’t stop himself from thinking how _elated_ Dimitri will be.

“We gotta hurry all this back,” He insists, turning on a heel to beam at Nader. “Thank you, for getting it all here safely.”

“Of course. Make sure you see it to where it needs to be.”

“I intend to.”

Holst appears loudly, and suddenly, even taller and more hulking than Claude remembers, bursting through the door at the news of his sister’s return.

“Hilda!”

“Oh, _great._ ” Sighing, she resigns herself to a whirlwind of affection, the great Goneril general inspecting her for even the smallest sign of hardship and abuse. She withstands it with practiced exhaustion, at least for a while before shoving him away.

“See why I never want to come home?” She huffs at Felix, who is, once again, left baffled at the display before him.

•••❂❂❂•••

As he had hoped, there’s a couple of Almyran merchants passing by the town, who have set up their wagons with miscellaneous goods for sale.

“You sure you don’t wanna bring something back for Sylvain?” Claude asks as they wander through the makeshift stalls. “Not even for your little one?”

“Neither of them are wanting for anything. What good are useless trinkets?”

“Fine, fine.” Claude shrugs, stopping to peruse one of the displays.

So Felix says, but he follows him about, anyway. Despite his claims, he does end up begrudgingly finding a tea that he _supposes_ Sylvain would like, and a brightly colored woven scarf for Elwin because he “needed a new one, anyway”.

After they return to the keep, the evening is spent with Claude chatting with Nader, catching up with affairs and passing to him the notes about the border project. Felix remains as verbose as he always is, quietly listening to the discussion with reserved interest.

They set off the next morning, with Hilda yawning into Claude’s shoulder as she hugs him goodbye. She hums against the rumble of his chest when he laughs, patting her back affectionately. Sways softly with her wrapped up in his arms, touching his brow down to the crown of her head.

He has always been much more a morning person than she, who hadn’t even managed makeup when she came down to exchange their goodbyes.

“Stooooop,” Whining, she weakly slaps at his arm. “If you keep doing that, I’ll fall back asleep right here.”

Laughing, he lets her go to pass a blurry look at Felix.

“If I hug you goodbye, you’re not gonna like, stab me? Right?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Ugh.” Pretending to take a moment to think, she steps towards him and winds her arms around his neck. “I’ll risk it.”

He flinches, and squirms a bit, but awkwardly pats her shoulder.

“You know what?” She giggles, fixing his crooked hood, “You’re not so bad, Felix. Even if you are a sourpuss.”

With that, his patience gives out and he wriggles from her, shuffling off even as she pretends to pout.

And squeaks, when Claude grabs her back in one last embrace.

“You’re _so_ lucky Holst isn’t here to see this.”

“I am.” He admits.

Nader claps both men on the shoulders, reeling Claude in for a brief, crushing hug.

“Take good care of that Fodlan king of yours,” He says. “Queen Tiana says you could do worse, so you might want to hang onto him. And tell him I want a sparring match next time we meet.”

“Noted.” Claude wheezes, patting his tree-trunk arm. “I’ll pass it on.”

And into the morning they move out.

Claude chats easily with the soldiers, the Almyran moving over his tongue as sweetly as nectar. It has been so long since he tasted it, at ease and cheerful among its familiar sounds.

Felix remains as sociable as ever, keeping rather to himself, as talkative to the Almyran soldiers as he is with the Fodlan ones.

“You,” One of them ventures conversation as they ride, voice thick with his accent, “You aren’t King Dimitri, are you? They say his hair is gold. Very tall.”

“I’m _not_ Dimitri.” Felix replies, borderline offended. “Only a vassal. I’m here under His Majesty Riegan’s order.”

Frowning a bit, considering, he nods in understanding and says no more.

Most Almyrans speak a scarce bit of Fodlan’s language, according to Claude, but it’s not comprehensive. “Barely functional, if at all”, as he calls it. As in Fodlan, the higher status one had, the higher the education, and the more likely for them to be fluent.

A few of them try in vain to speak to Felix, probably curious, but after a few blank stares, when it’s clear neither understand a thing, they give up.

They eye his sword, his stance, unsettle and irritate him with their long, searching looks. Finally, one accosts Claude as he’s walking by, catching him by the shoulder more roughly than any normal soldier in Fodlan would address their king, or even a noble. She gestures to Felix, apparently questioning.

Whatever Claude says, it seems to satisfy her. She gives Felix a once over and nods, then returns back to her work.

“What was that about?”

“They’ve been wondering who you are, since you’re, you know, not Dimitri, but have obvious status. I told them you’re one of the finest warriors that Fodlan has to offer, and I hand picked you for the trip.” Claude smiles and gives Felix a quick pat on the arm. “Chances are, they’re gonna start picking fights with you soon. You’re welcome.”

And they do.

At first, Felix doesn’t understand when they’re asking, or for what, and he has to find Claude to explain. Once it’s cleared up, he happily takes on every challenger.

Fighting forms are different for Almyran martial arts, and it takes him off guard; but he’s quick and skilled, and holds his own. They cheer when he falls, and cheer when he’s victorious, and just as Hilda and Claude had warned him, several matches end in the dirt, and he doesn’t mind.

“Hey,” Felix pants, gesturing to Claude, all but ignoring the blood pouring from his nose, “Tell them to teach me how to do that.”

“You want a handkerchief first, or—”

“No! Didn’t you hear what I just said? I said to tell them to _teach_ me.”

Shrugging, Claude calls out to the man who had grappled Felix into as near submission as he’s ever seen him, and explains, gesturing.

Grinning wide, he nods, and boasts something in proud, brusque Almyran, large hand pulling Felix into their circle.

“…Oh, boy.”

•••❂❂❂•••

“They like you,” Claude tells Felix with a laugh, sitting himself beside him with his plate that evening. By now, Felix’s nose has stopped bleeding, but there’s a fresh bruise on his cheek, and a scrape on his chin. Claude had seen him go to one of the healers earlier, for an arm twisted too far. “They like your spark. Say you’re stronger than most Fodlan fighters they’ve met, and learn quickly.”

Felix sniffs a bit, hiding a pleased grin by biting into a heel of bread.

“They want you to show them your sword techniques.” Claude tells him. “Take that as a _high_ compliment, because generally, they don’t think much of Fodlan’s fighting styles.”

“Hmph.” Felix gruffs. “Fair is fair. They taught me. I’ll teach them.”

Of course, the camaraderie that builds between Felix and the Almyran soldiers puts him in a much better mood than he had been the whole trip. Who knew getting bruised and beaten, dishing out beatings and bruisings in return, would put one in such a fine state?

With Felix, Claude should have actually seen it coming a mile away. Then, he’s faced with the next massive surprise for the trip.

One day, as they stop for a short break, Claude and Felix are going over a map, hashing out their return trip, when Mirza approaches. Still young, but a head taller than them both, he features an elegant aquiline nose and light hazel eyes below his neatly combed dark hair. He waits for them to notice him before he looks at Felix, looks at Claude, and says something that makes him sputter the water he’s drinking all over himself.

Blinking, Felix watches Claude wipe his mouth and cough, clearing his throat before wheezing some response to Mirza that has him sigh, shake his head, and walk off.

“…What was that about?”

Claude is trying not to laugh, and badly failing the attempt.

“He asked how he should court you.”

Felix’s face _falls_ , and that’s what does it, that’s what sets Claude into a full body laugh.

“What did you tell him!?”

“Told him to meet you in your tent after dinner this evening.”

“That’s _not funny!”_

“Relax. I told him you’re already spoken for, and he slinked off with his tail between his legs. Not what he wanted there, mind you.”

“You’re disgusting!” Felix snaps, red-faced. “No wonder you and Sylvain get along so well.”

And it’s not the end, either.

His fighting prowess gains acclaim throughout the soldiers. They don’t care much about learning he’s from one of the highest noble bloodlines in Fodlan. He’s strong, and handsome, doesn’t care for frivolity, likes fighting and likes a challenge, and it’s plenty.

As they sit around with their empty dinner plates, another young man insists on Claude translating his sweet nothings for Felix’s ears, which turn redder and redder as he’s told how silky his dark hair, how graceful his long legs, how he wants to run his hands over both, while lost in his copper eyes. How _good_ he’d make Felix feel, if only he’d give him a chance, calling out for his foreign Goddess— 

“Tell him to _stop!_ ” Felix snarls as he lunges to his feet and storms off.

The other soldiers, who had been amusedly watching the attempted wooing, burst into laughter. Courting isn’t nearly as delicate among Almyrans as it is for Fodlans, and it’s considered admirable to be so bold in displaying one’s intentions. In this case, though… 

“ _I told you,_ ” Claude consoles him. “ _He’s already got a lover he’s devoted to._ ”

“ _I had to try._ ” The poor thing practically wilts, staring dolefully after the retreating figure.

Before too much of Felix’s time is occupied by chasing off would-be suitors, Claude settles beside him one night, as has become an odd, unspoken ritual for them. Although Felix’s affection for Claude hasn’t come any easier than it did for the Almyran soldiers trying to win it, he carries less outward disdain for him.

Accepting his presence with little more than a glance, Felix returns to studying the text in his hand by firelight, Nylah flopping behind them in a scaly backdrop.

The book automatically draws Claude’s attention as he sits and leans against her side. But Felix doesn’t appreciate either mindless small talk or pretense, so he cuts to the chase.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“And what’s that?”

“What _do_ you know about Sreng, anyway?” Claude recalls what little he does. “I only know what anyone can find in reports and texts. You’ve lived with them as your unfriendly neighbors your whole life.”

Considering both question and answer, Felix slips a bookmark between his pages and sets it down on his pack.

“They’re clever fighters.” He says. “And survive by any means necessary. Their strength is straightforward, but their way of fighting isn’t. Conventional tactics don’t work.”

“So Teach had the right of it, then. That’s why you’re so hesitant to do anything without the right intelligence.” Claude notes approvingly while Felix nods.

“Holding the line is the best thing to do right now. Even though that’s easier said than done.”

Turning just slightly to face Claude better, he speaks as plainly as ever, hair turned inky black under the waning light of lavender evening.

“They don’t have numbers Fodlan does, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. They’re cunning, and well trained. They like surprise attacks and will fight to the last breath.”

Taking this in, Claude sets his shoulders against the weight that presses against him.

“Scary stuff.”

Felix hums in agreement. “They know they have fewer people, and have adapted around it. That’s why I don’t want inexperienced fighters. They panic, they forget discipline. They run off to chase shadows, and then they die.”

“What do you mean?”

Felix flinches in annoyance when Nylah huffs and rests her chin on his thigh.

“You’ve never been north of Fhirdiad, have you?”

“No.”

“The forests are dense, and the snow makes for poor visibility.” Felix explains. “Say you send a troupe of soldiers out. They hear a bang, get fidgety. A couple of arrows fly by them, and they’re spooked even more. Hear some clanging steel, look around for incoming enemies.”

Claude doesn’t know the north, but he can guess where this gruesome story is going.

“Sreng warriors are like wolves in a pack, each one worth five of any normal Fodlan footsoldier.” Felix’s voice darkens with anger, cold remembrance. “They don’t just fight. They _hunt._ Wear their enemies down mentally, herd them where they want. Make just enough chaos to scatter them, so they get lost and disoriented in the forest. Then, when they’ve played with their food long enough…they start picking them off.”

Ruthless. Cruel. But effective.

“You won’t know what’s happening until you’re surrounded by a dozen of them. Ending up alone in a forest with Sreng warriors is about the worst place to be.”

A grim prospect, to be sure.

“And? How do you escape a situation like that?”

“You don’t.” Felix says simply.

Claude doesn’t have a worthwhile response for that. Felix would know better than most anyone how Sreng’s military works, and if he says escape in such a situation is impossible… it just might be. Coming from the mouth of one of the most esteemed heroes of the war, it’s nothing to take lightly, even if his mind automatically searches for ways in which one would get out of such peril.

“And I don’t suppose we could reach out to them for a diplomatic solution?”

Felix offers him the same answer Dimitri had.

“We’ve tried. _Sylvain’s_ tried. They aren’t all that interested.”

Claude sighs, and beside him, Felix makes a disgusted noise.

“Ugh. You even _smell_ like the boar.”

“I smell…smell like _what?_ ”

“ _The boar_.” He repeats, nose wrinkling. “Dimitri.”

“Like _Dimitri?_ I smell like—okay, why have I heard that before? What _smell?_ Dimitri doesn’t _use a cologne_ , he doesn’t _have_ a smell! And trust me, I know!…Don’t look at me like that, I live with him. I only know because I _asked_ . How could I have a scent that doesn’t exist, when I haven’t slept with him in three weeks? Wait, that came out weird. Hey, don’t look at me like that, _either_ . Actually, you know what, stop looking at me, _period_. This conversation never happened. Forget the last thirty seconds of your life. Your king commands you.”

“If only I fucking _could._ ”

Felix rolls his eyes, a gesture Claude has seldom seen him do, and it’s potent enough to rival Ingrid’s as he takes a sip from his flask.

“Fantastic. Now I know. You’re just as bad as him.”

“As bad as Dimitri _how_?” Sour, Claude readjusts in his seat, glaring at the fire for no particular reason at all.

“How else?” Felix takes another swig. “Lovestruck fool.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Claude sputters. “ _You’re_ one to talk, Mister Felix Hugo _I-Hate-Sylvain-So Much-I-Just-Live-With-Him-and-Have-His-Adopted-Baby_ Fraldarius.”

The look Felix gives him is pure acid, his cheeks staining red, red, _red_ , and probably not from whatever he’s drinking.

“Don’t _make_ me bring Dimitri back a deer carcass, Riegan.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Claude waves a hand at the threat. “It’s not like that between me and Dimitri. I can assure you of that much.”

Now Felix scoffs. _Loudly._ “With how he sings your praises? And the way he looks at—you know what. Never mind. I truly don’t care how obtuse you choose to be.”

“I’m not being obtuse!”

“If you’re not, then you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

“You think I’m smart? How nice.”

“I’m rethinking it.”

“I might have mentioned this already, but you _suck._ What is that you’re drinking, anyway? I need a drink. You make me want to drink.”

Wordless, Felix holds out his flask, and wordless, Claude takes it.

“…This is just hot tea. You suck _even more_ for this.”

Felix smirks.

•••❂❂❂•••

Dimitri has forgotten how grueling meetings could feel when he was alone. He has spent the morning finalizing the plans for their coming absence with his cabinet of advisors.

Theoretically, they were chosen representatives from local districts, along with lords from surrounding territories. In reality, they were largely given their positions from status, wealth, and connections, and kept them that way. Politicians and aristocrats all in one.

He would, eventually, like a separate council of average citizens to have as much access to the closed doors of the board meetings. But that was another project he had been forced to shelve in favor of putting out the many fires that refused to be fully extinguished after the war.

Rubbing his hands over his eyes, he sighs and sinks into his seat.

“A headache, Your Highness?”

He practically jumps out of his skin, having also forgotten, somehow, how _quiet_ Dedue could be, for such a large man.

“I apologize. I did not intend to startle you.”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry.” He insists, reaching for the nearest stack of documents. “Can I do something for you?”

“A messenger arrived, while you were in the meeting.” Dedue informs him. “His Majesty Claude and his company are expected to arrive this afternoon.”

Suddenly, the fatigue is past, and Dimitri perks up in his seat. “Today? This afternoon _when_? When did word arrive?”

“About an hour ago.”

“An _hour_.”

“According to the messenger, we can expect them at about three this afternoon.”

_Three—_

Dimitri glances at the clock, hanging above the mantle. It was half past one now, that hardly left much time at all, and yet—

It is _such_ a long time.

“I see.” Is what he manages to say, calmly. Dedue’s eyes are on him. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be sure to be ready to greet them.”

With a nod, Dedue excuses himself with another bow. “I will send for you when they are here.”

“Please.”

Dedue leaves Dimitri in his office alone to contend with the bird fluttering its wings within his ribcage.

Once it has settled down, he immediately reaches for a fresh paper and retrieves his pen, to inform Byleth that they would be at Garreg Mach within the next fortnight.

•••❂❂❂•••

When Claude and Felix arrive in the front courtyard at Fhirdiad’s royal estate, they’re met first by the stable hands to take their steeds. Nylah goes grudgingly with one of the wyvern handlers after much consoling, as it always requires.

“You ought to do something about her temper.” Felix criticizes.

“And you ought to do something about yours.” Claude says lightly, ignoring the annoyed grunt from over his shoulder when he spots Dedue and Ingrid approaching.

“Your Majesty!” One formal bow later, and she’s throwing her arms around Felix.

For, presumably, propriety, the one for Claude is much more restrained, which he decides he’ll have none of, and squeezes her hard enough to make her squeak, lifting her off the ground.

“Galatea! You won’t believe it, I almost missed your lectures!”

“You’re a brat.” Smacking his chest lightly as he releases her, she assures him, “But guess what? I _do_ have a surprise for you.”

“Oh, no. I don’t like that.”

“Wh—Felix!” Ingrid gasps, once she gets a good look at him. “What happened to you!?”

She’s referring to the healing cut lip, and the fading bruise beneath his eye.

“Sparring with Almyran soldiers.” Unbelievably, he grins at that.

“Oh, _no_ ,” She sighs, “ _Please_ tell me you weren’t picking fights with them!”

“He was, but it was mutual, and trust me. It’s okay.” Claude insists, “They like him. They like him _a lot_.”

Dimitri appears quickly after that, delighted to see them both back safely, saying as much before the group makes its way inside the castle.

He appears to be in good spirits, even as they enter the office, laughing freely behind his hand while Claude bemoans and decries the _atrocity_ that Ingrid has unleashed upon his desk.

“How am I supposed to find anything _now!?_ ”

“You _can’t_ be serious. I _organized_ it.”

Acknowledging that the trip was tiresome, Claude only catches up on the summary of important things he’s missed, to be gone over in detail tomorrow after a night of proper rest.

Felix accepts the invitation to spend the night, but makes it clear that he’ll be gone come the sunrise tomorrow.

He seems to be reconsidering the decision when Claude entertains them at dinner by telling them how _popular_ he was among his countrymen.

“Three marriage proposals. _Three._ ” Claude relishes in telling them. “Felix, remember Nadia?”

“I remember,” He’s quick to latch onto this, noting, “She followed _you_ around for three days straight.”

“Mm. Yes, she did.” Claude pauses for a leisurely drink from his water glass, only to reveal, “She was begging for my permission to court you. When I told her she’d have to ask your lover first, she demanded that I tell her where to find them so she could fight him for your hand.”

Felix grumbles, scowling at his plate and digging his knife into his cut of mutton.

Dimitri’s cheeriness lasts from the time they arrive, through dinner, and into the evening. So much so, that Claude begins to wonder the cause.

Good news, perhaps? A few nights of plentiful sleep, at long last? Fleetingly, he wonders, glancing over the rim of his glass at Dimitri, who sits across the table and enthusiastically listens to Felix tell him about the curved scimitars of the Almyran swordsmen, if he had found someone to fill the empty spot in his bed after all, while Claude had been away.

But it’s only the whispers of his paranoid mind, and he dashes it away.

Dimitri had sworn _never_ , to him. Claude doesn’t question it, not truly. Even without the metaphorical heat of the moment, in one of Fhirdiad’s cold alleyways, his hands warmed between Dimitri’s palms.

The curiosity nips at him all evening, but he decides to wait for the reason to possibly reveal itself. After all, Dimitri is still a _terrible_ liar, and he would be able to sense anything amiss immediately.

•••❂❂❂•••

Claude has brought back a silver hair clip for Ingrid, intricately molded and enameled with pink, white, green; she’s not much for luxury, but she concedes its beauty, immediately and gratefully fastening it into her long hair.

He has for Dedue a satchel of Almyran spices, difficult to come by in the Alliance and near impossible as inland from the border as Fhirdiad. He accepts it with humble excitement, promising to make them a feast worthy of the thoughtfulness.

“Wait until Ashe comes back.” Claude tells him with a wink. “We ought to all enjoy it together. I hear they’re _actually_ going to return him to us soon.”

“Ah.” Dedue notes, spirits lifted, “A fine idea, then.”

They have retired to their apartments for the night when Claude approaches him in the sunroom, the evening glowing lilac through the windows. The drapes are drawn back from the balcony door, to let its light sweep through the room.

Excitedly, like a schoolboy with gossip to share, he sits beside Dimitri on the sofa and thrusts a package into his hands.

“What’s this?”

“What, like I’d really forget you?” Claude grins, and watches with barely restrained eagerness as Dimitri sets aside his endearingly terrible attempt at crochet, along with several bent needles, to undo the twine holding it together.

Inside he finds a leatherbound notebook, its covers dyed a deep forest green, bound with black leather cord. The paper is obviously of fine quality, sturdy and subtly textured beneath his fingertips.

“Admittedly, the selection was slimmer than if in an actual Almyran city, but I thought you might like it.” Claude studies him for reaction.

Dimitri smiles, turning over the pages and gently running his hand over the silk-soft leather.

“It’s wonderful.” He says softly, and shyly, elatedly, turns to Claude. “Thank you. Truly. I’m…it means a lot that you went through the trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” Claude assures him, “I dunno if you’ll use it, if you really journal all that much, or. Well, you can use it for whatever you fancy, really.”

“I’ll use it.” Dimitri promises. “I will. It’s too precious a gift not to.”

Huffing an embarrassed laugh, Claude runs a hand over his hair. “Geez. Dimitri, it’s…it’s just a notebook.”

“No,” Dimitri corrects him with a shake of his head. “No, it is not _just_ anything. It’s a token of your thoughts, and that…I cannot express enough how I treasure that.”

That creature again, clenching its jaws around his ribs.

Meanwhile, Dimitri stands to cross the room and set it on the desk. Hesitating, he brushes his fingers over it one more time before he leaves it be, beside the bottles of ink.

Embarrassed, pretending to be otherwise, Claude stands, stretching out his arms and lifting them overhead with a satisfied groan.

“Man. Glad to have a real mattress for a day or two before we head out again. Remember when I said I have to remember I’m not twenty anymore? Yeah, applies to sleeping on the ground, too.”

Chuckling, Dimitri concedes, “It has been a long time since then.”

“Long for _you_. I’ve had the pleasure of camping out since I left.”

“No, not that. A long time since we were twenty.”

Claude groans. “Don’t _say_ that.”

It is right, Dimitri thinks, it _fits_ , to see Claude in this room again. Where he loves to stretch out in the afternoons on this very couch with his book, and make haphazard attempts on the antique harp that sits in the corner. His favorite room to take naps in, wherever the sun happens to fall, even if that’s on the carpeted floor.

To see him here again is such…a relief. Maybe part of him had been afraid that the last few months were just a different sort of nightmare. One where he would wake up, and find himself alone again.

It would be crueler than any other he’s ever had.

“Dimtiri?”

Claude’s peering at him quizzically, tilting his head, smiling in that painfully empty way that Dimitri sees clearer and clearer.

“You’re zoning out. You okay over there?”

_What can I do,_ Dimitri wonders. _What can I do to bring out your real smile? Where is it?_

…He is selfish. Conceited, perhaps, to think that he could bring it out. Although he wants to give, to be something other than an ever-ravenous beast that simply takes, takes, takes. So very selfish of him, really, that he—

What can an empty husk like him hope to offer?

_Nothing but nightmares and turmoil._

“I was just…just thinking, is all.”

“Yeah? You looked it. Care to share?”

The light sparks off the metal from Claude’s earring, marking a spot of gold on his cheek that Dimitri… 

—wants to—

He is so _selfish._

Hands fidgeting, nervous, Dimitri chews his lip, stares at the floor. Frowns at it, then at the wall, the window, while Claude’s sharp eyes capture every movement. Does he know, can he guess—?

It seems so long ago, now, that Claude had arrived in the hallways of the castle. Had turned a corner, and thrown his arms around Dimitri as an old, long-lost friend on a cold, gray morning.

He had arrived as a drop of gold ink, dropped onto a blank parchment. Their fingers, since then, have drawn messy lines over and around each other. Parallel and abstract. Confused.

Careful not to cross.

Dimitri absently touches burning fingertips to the silver ring on his finger, and Claude catches that too.

Waiting. Patient. Curious.

Curious, always curious.

Always careful.

And Dimitri is— 

So, so selfish.

He wants to—

He wants to meet.

•••❂❂❂•••

Dimitri daydreams, sometimes. Maybe he doesn’t always realize when he drifts off, but it’s fascinating to watch. He will end up so deep in thought, he’ll look out towards the horizon as though waiting for dawn, whether it’s the middle of the day, or the middle of the night.

But he’s careful about it, and maybe it’s even subconscious, because when he must, he presents himself as picture-perfect royalty. Calm, and stately. Polite and courteous, well read. Despite his fearsome reputation, he’s rather placid for the most part. At least, to most people who aren’t terribly familiar with him.

But in private, his moods are as clear as glass. When he is tired, or somber, which are both often. Or amused, or irritated. He is still reserved in showing his joy, in expressing his wants, as though he will break anything he reaches for.

Right now, as he looks at Claude…it stops his mind in his tracks.

All goes quiet, with the expression he wears now, which looks so very foreign, and so very unmistakeable.

Fondness, and acceptance, and. If he is not…if he is not wrong, in this—

_Lovestruck fools._

And before he can even begin to mentally grapple with _that,_ Dimitri steps forward in one, two, three strides, and pulls him into an embrace.

Not just a hug. An _embrace._ An embrace out of the fairy tales. Securing Claude to his chest, as though afraid he will fly away if he does not hold on tightly enough. Protective, unyielding. Desperate.

He might as _well_ be twenty all over again, for the way his heart rattles like a pair of dice in a gambler’s cup.

“I…” Dimitri sighs, and Claude can feel him tense, briefly, before admitting, “I am glad to have you back. It was not the same with you gone.”

“Ha. Ahaha. How can you say that with a straight face?” Claude teases. “It was just a few weeks.”

Dimitri leans down, rests his cheek against his head, and his heart goes suddenly still.

That animal again, biting down and squeezing. Fangs that don’t hurt, an ache that doesn’t crush, but rather, burns.

It takes him a moment to realize that he has yet to return the gesture. Trying his very best to be casual, folds his arms around Dimitri’s back, laughing when Dimitri reminds him, “I am, as you say, a terrible liar. So it does not serve me to try.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right about that.”

Without thinking, he turns his face, his temple at the crook of Dimitri’s shoulder, and that’s when it hits him.

_Dimitri’s scent._

He almost doesn’t know how he really missed it.

Like forest night and moonlight, hearthfire breathing life into winter air.

Painful, and familiar, and something he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t missed, not until he had been _gone_ , and now that he can tell, now that he _knows_ , he’s not sure he can ever get enough of it.

Without thinking, he chases it, nose brushing beneath Dimitri’s jaw, fingers brushing back strands of gold. Breathes deeply, lets out a contented sigh while Dimitri’s chest hitches against him, fingers pressing into his back.

“I missed you.”

The admission comes suddenly, as though it simply burst unbidden from his mouth, and right away, Claude can practically _feel_ DImitri start to mentally kick himself. For a perfectly harmless, entirely endearing slip of the tongue.

He _laughs_.

“I missed you, too.” Claude, feeling the surprised intake of breath against him, the way Dimitri’s fingers twitch along his shoulder. It’s that surprise of his that hurts, that Dimitri should think it so impossible. “You’re really a sentimental goof, you know that?”

Dimitri goes quiet. Probably embarrassed now, at a loss for what to say, and Claude smiles into his collar. Breathing in, sighing. Pressing closer, taking another wonderful breath full of warmth, and forest, and moonlight.

“I’m home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Felix voice] "Disgusting."
> 
> "is this happening too fast? are they moving too fast?" I say to myself, as I also complain about how long this fic has inexplicably gotten.
> 
> I don't know how many times I've thought "this is too stupid. don't put it in." and then I proceed to say FUCK IT and add it in.  
> fic is made to be indulgent.  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> all the commenters have been so amazingly kind to me and this story ♥ it really means a lot. i also love seeing returning readers. it makes me excited to tell more of the story, even if no one could shut me up if they tried.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warnings for Dimitri's Very Bad Dreams of some grisly warlike violence and images.
> 
> Also, three cheers for severe depression.

**_18th of Horsebow Moon, Year 119X_ **

_I have never kept a journal before. It is actually a little intimidating. What am I to write about? It seems rather banal to simply talk about the day, and discussing my thoughts seems rather boring. And in such a precious gift as this…_

_Claude suggested that I think of it as writing a letter to my future self. That makes it a little easier for the words to come, but I am still unsure. What musings would my future self care to look back on?_

_Ingrid and Dedue say that a journal is a good idea. That it will help me reflect and work through the things I am thinking about. It is to be kept private, of course. Maybe once I make it a habit, I will see its effects._

_And of course, there is no possible way that Claude will intrude on these most personal writings._

_You wouldn’t, would you, Claude?_

_Would you be so rude to your husband as to read his diary?_

_I have faith in you._

•••❂❂❂•••

True to his word, Felix departs early the next morning. Dimitri finds him having breakfast, and joins him in silence.

The dining room is empty at this time, only the clinking of dishes from the kitchens echoing off stone and glass, and the quiet bustle of the cooks and servants. The edges of the windows are slightly frosted over, speaking to the cold night behind them, Felix already wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, gloves beside his plate.

“That can’t be all you’re eating.”

Stirred from thought, Dimitri looks across the table at him from the bowl of savory porridge he’s been pointlessly stirring his spoon in.

“I don’t feel all that hungry in the morning.”

Felix’s stare is piercing, unfooled, but doesn’t comment further.

Instead, they resume their wordless companionship until Felix is done with his food, downing the last of his drink. Pauses. Settles back down in his seat, the empty cup thudding on the table top.

Dimitri blinks, watching curiously while Felix sighs. Opens his mouth. Hesitates. Sighs again. Clenches his jaw, as though bracing himself.

“He’s. Tolerable. _Sometimes._ ”

Dimitri stares. Felix reddens, and glares at the table.

“Stop _staring_ at me.”

Dimitri laughs.

“ _Dimitri!_ Stop _laughing!…_ I said _sometimes._ Don’t you dare tell him I said that.”

Dimitri laughs harder.

“Shut it, I said!”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

“…It’s fine.” Felix decides, muttering. “You…”

“Hm?”

Hesitating again, Felix stares at the table, teeth fussing over his bottom lip.

“Your laugh sounds almost real, now.”

Staring blankly at his downturned eyes, Dimitri is nothing but puzzled as he reflects. “What?”

“Are you deaf?” Felix snaps. “Don’t make me repeat myself. It’s annoying.”

“Was I too loud?” Self conscious, he brings a hand to his mouth, while Felix groans.

“ _Ugh_. No, it’s just. I said it’s fine, Dimitri! Now drop it.”

Still mired in insecurity, Dimitri gives in with a soft hum, wondering.

And smiles, despite it.

For his days have certainly been warmer, even with the coming of the cold.

“…Get that stupid grin off your face.” Felix grinds out, pressing his fingertips to his temple. “I’m done with both of you. I don’t want to see _either_ of your faces for a while.”

“Ah, what a shame. Claude was talking about visiting Fraldarius upon our return from Adrestia.”

“What the—are you serious?! Can’t I have some _peace_ from you two for a while? _Augh._ To hell and back with both of you.” Felix only grows more agitated when Dimitri laughs again, this time with a hand clamped over his mouth. “…You’re both insufferable. Though, I do suppose that does mean you deserve each other.”

That, at least, finally shuts Dimitri up, and he stares into his bowl, fussing with his spoon. Felix heaves another aggravated sigh, slumping to prop his face up in his hand while he stares across the table at him.

A maid whisks by, reaching for Felix’s dishes and bowing when he hands them to her. She gives another to Dimitri, and then she’s gone with a sweep of her skirt.

“…You’re hopeless, Dimitri.”

He agrees with a private smile.

“I very much am.”

•••❂❂❂•••

It only takes part of the morning for Ingrid and Dedue to go over their notes for Claude. His absence hadn’t been that long, yet they are thorough and concise.

All of the planning has been done. The soldiers are given a few days’ rest after the journey, the Almyrans having traveled much further to reach Fodlan’s Throat. They’re housed in the barracks along with the Fodlan guards, and left to their own devices until departure.

And with that, their schedule is clear. It’s the closest they will have time to themselves for who knows how long.

“Even you two need to take a break sometimes. You ought to relax.” Ingrid insists, gently chasing them from the office. “If there’s a real emergency, we’ll find you. Other than that, leave it to us.”

“Works for me.” Claude yawns.

Dimitri is unconvinced, but he follows anyway.

“Forget _us_. I think the Kingdom would fall without _them._ ” He tells Dimitri. “What do you say we retire and pass on the crown to Ingrid and Dedue?”

“I don’t think they will accept that proposition peacefully.”

“Well. There goes my plan of retiring to the countryside and raising wyverns. Kingship it is.”

•••❂❂❂•••

They wander their respective ways after that. Claude spends the first part of the day napping and reading. Come afternoon, he leisurely rouses himself for an all-important errand.

“Your Majesty,” Mildly surprised, Dedue watches Claude enter the greenhouse. “Do you require something of me?”

“Relax.” Claude’s gaze roves around the greenhouse, taking in the tidily kept plants and flowers. “Nothing official. And please, don’t refer to me by title when it’s not strictly necessary.”

“As you wish.”

The vast royal estate includes its own gardens and fields, as well as three separate greenhouses. However, this one is privately and solely Dedue’s. Dimitri had made it so, and forbade anyone to interfere with it.

Despite his initial reluctance in accepting what he felt was too lavish a gift, many an hour is spent here, tending to its numerous little lives. Ashe could often be found here as well, as natural and gentle a presence as any of its blooms.

“I’ve been to most corners of this place by now, but not here.” Claude marvels, dropping to a crouch, in order to examine them more closely. “Well, until now that is. It’s sure kept nice and warm in here, isn’t it? Perfect for these fellas.”

Dedue watches him idly explore in silence, perplexed.

“Apparently it’s kinda your own little private sanctuary. Dimitri warned me not to go poking around in here without your permission.” Claude stands, straightening his back and stretching his shoulders. “So I wanted to wait until you were here yourself.”

“It is not so private as that,” Dedue shakes his head. “I certainly could not bar you from it.”

“Respect goes both ways.” Claude smiles. “As far as people around here are concerned, you’ve always been one of the most supportive of my being here.”

“It is what Dimitri wants.” Dedue says simply. “I have no reason to oppose it. As far as I know, no one truly does.”

A peculiar shadow sweeps through the curve of Claude’s mouth. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Dedue hesitates, then admits, “The people of Fodlan…can be… _hesitant_ …with others that they perceive to be outsiders.”

“You got that right.” Claude folds his arms behind his head, leaning back to peer up through the glass ceiling of the greenhouse. It allows ample sunlight, allows for the warmth to be let in and held.

“Imagine that. I’m half Fodlan by birth, and spent years living here. United the Alliance lords, led an army. Yet, a couple years across the border, and the reveal of my heritage, and suddenly none of that matters half of what it once did. I’m not _leader of the Alliance_ or _heir to House Riegan_ anymore. Now, to anyone who didn't know me before? I’m _that Almyran that King Dimitri married._ ”

To that, Dedue has nothing to say.

Some things, many of the people who surround them will never truly understand. Among their friends and acquaintances, they may have qualms with their heritage, criticisms of the imperfect society they move through with relative ease, but their status has never been questioned. Nor have they had their character scrutinized for what side of what border they had been born on.

“Anyway,” Claude shrugs, letting his arms swing down by his sides. “That’s not what I came in here to discuss.”

His boots click on the marble tiles as he sidles up to Dedue, fishing around in his coat pocket and producing an embroidered pouch.

“I was lucky. There was an herbalist among the Almyran merchants hanging around the border.” Claude explains as Dedue curiously takes it in hand, undoing the drawstring knot and finding a set of folded paper envelopes. “Happened to pick up some seeds from her. Apparently, these will grow plants that are fairly potent sleep-aids and are good at promoting calmness.”

Dedue tilts his head, examining the labels.

“I translated the notes for you,” Claude tells him. “I have absolutely no green thumb to speak of for myself, but I thought if anyone could make it work, it’d be you.”

“And…this is for…?” There’s a wizened smile perking up his normally stony face

“Hey. _Hey._ Don’t you dig too much into this.” Claude says pointedly. “I just thought—look, sleeping is _essential_ to a healthy life, and it’s not good for a king to be constantly half-asleep at the helm. I thought it would help, is all— _stop looking at me like that._ ”

“It is a thoughtful gift.” Unfolding the papers to glance over, Dedue asks, “But why did you not give them to Dimitri directly, if they are intended for him, in the end?”

“Excuse me? Did I say they were for Dimitri? I never said that. You’re putting words in my mouth. _You!_ Of all people!”

Dedue waits patiently, and does not budge.

“…Okay, okay, fine! Yes! They’re for Dimitri!” He admits, throwing his hands up. “You caught me! Unbelievable. Well, whatever. I figured they would end up in your hands either way. Only, he would be more reluctant to _dare_ trouble you with it. Me? I have no problem.”

“True enough. I’m sure he will appreciate the gesture, when they are ready.”

“We’ll see how much. Apparently they have a very strong, very _acquired_ taste.”

“That…will likely not hinder him. Not as much as you think.”

At the hesitation in his words, Claude turns back towards Dedue, his conflicted expression buckling beneath honesty.

“Dimitri does not have much of a sense of taste.” He explains. “And consequently, not much of a sense of smell, either. Both are dulled to near nothing for him.”

“…Wait, seriously? Since when?”

“For as long as I’ve known him.”

“He never said anything…I didn’t know. Wait. Heck. How could I not know this?”

“Likely, he doesn’t think it important enough to warrant discussion or disclosure.” Dedue says, “I believe it contributes to his abysmal eating habits.”

“That _would_ explain quite a lot…” Claude breathes out, running a hand through his hair. “That…even explains how he was the only one who could stand Flayn’s cooking back at the Academy! I used to wonder _how_ he did that! I thought he either had an iron will or truly horrendous taste.”

“He sometimes became quite ill after consuming her cooking. I could not figure out the cause until I learned of the correlation.”

“Saints above. Does Flayn know she sickened the Prince of Faerghus?”

“I don’t believe she ever did learn that fact. Dimitri would never tell her, either.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. And who could, with that sweet little face of hers?”

“It would be very difficult.” Dedue admits. “I did teach her what I could, in the time we had. Dimitri was ill less often after our lessons began.”

Sharing a chuckle about it, Claude takes another glance about the place while Dedue sorts through the notes. The tools are immaculately arranged and well maintained, the soil beds lovingly organized. The air is fragrant with healthy greenery, every corner evidence of meticulous care. It’s definitely the sign of someone with strong nurturing instincts, and he can’t help thinking how it all reflects Dedue’s quiet, thoughtful nature.

How one’s sanctuary is kept, be that a bedroom or a greenhouse, is like holding a mirror up to oneself, whether they like it or not.

“Anyway,” He concludes. “I just wanted to pass on the request for these herbs to find a good home to root in. Depending on timing, maybe they’ll be nearly ready by the time we come back.”

“I will not fail you.” Dedue pledges with a subtle bow, and Claude waves his hand.

“Hey now, it’s not _that_ serious. If you can get it to work, it’d be nice to try, is all.”

“You underestimate how important the task.” Dedue levels him with his own serious earnestness. “If Dimitri can experience better sleep, it will doubtlessly improve his daily quality of life. And it will mean much to him that you thought to try and remedy his terrible state of rest.”

“Er…I guess. I mean, no one likes the lack of sleep. Having enough of it sure does wonders for a person, doesn’t it? And if Dimitri is happier, then all the better for the rest of us, right? Ah, speaking of which, any idea why he’s so cheerful? Did something good happen while we were away? Or was he just that glad to be rid of me?”

Dedue lifts his brow in subtle contemplation.

“…I’m not imagining it, am I?” Claude scratches behind his ear. “Maybe I am. I just thought he seemed extra chipper.”

“You are not mistaken.” Dedue says with a small smile. “He has been in a happier mood.”

“Oh yeah? It’s a nice thing to see. When did that start?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Wait, only since then? But that’s just since I got back with Felix.”

“Indeed.”

Dedue’s meaningful stare prickles heat up the back of Claude’s neck, and he feels his eyes go wide.

“Oh. Um. How about that.”

“I cannot confirm anything.” Dedue admits readily. “But that is what I have observed.”

“I. I see.”

With Claude having nothing to say after that, they descend to silence. Common enough for Dedue, who seems unfairly comfortable with this revelation.

“Right. Well. I’m gonna go.” Claude announces as he turns on his heel, “Gonna go fling _myself_ into a river this time.”

“I do not advise that. You will catch cold.”

•••❂❂❂•••

“This is _not work_ ,” Ingrid promises when she finds Dimitri and Claude later that day. “But I thought you should know your bodyguards are here.”

“Our what?” Claude blinks, and it takes a moment to catch up to Dimitri, who sits up in realization.

“That’s right. I promised Ingrid that we would have a personal guard. I asked Byleth for recommendations, and I—I admit, I had mostly forgotten by now.”

“Oh. Huh. Well, I guess some extra eyes and ears around us couldn’t hurt.” Claude admits as they follow Ingrid’s lead down the hall. “If they’re here by Teach’s rec, then I’m sure we’re in good hands. I mean, they're probably just fine with throwing whoever at me and letting Lady Luck take a spin on it, but for you? No one but the best."

"Stop that," Dimitri chides. "Byleth adores you."

"It's hard not to, I'll admit, but I'm just saying, they would literally move heaven and earth for you-Shamir!” He breaks off with a cheer. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again!”

Offering a curt wave as greeting, she admits, “Wasn’t sure I’d ever be here again.”

“And Cyril,” Dimitri acknowledges, addressing the young man warily eyeing Claude from over Shamir’s shoulder. “What a welcome surprise to see you here as well.”

“Yeah, well,” He shrugs, shuffling a bit in place. “Byleth asked me, and even managed to track down Shamir, so. Here I am.”

“Yeah, how in heaven's grace did they manage that one?” Claude’s grinning.

“Before they were archbishop, and even before they were a professor, Byleth was a merc.” She reminds them. “We have our ways.”

“I hope, then, that you have no more reason to fear for our safety.” Dimitri says to Ingrid, who nods approvingly.

“I will always worry. But I _do_ feel much better, now.”

“Here.” Shamir hands over an envelope to Ingrid. Enclosed, beneath the Church of Serios’ waxed seal, is a letter from Seteth, explaining their presence.

“… _I reminded the archbishop to let His Majesties know of Shamir and Cyril’s assignment to this mission ahead of their arrival. However, in the event that their head has drifted to the clouds again and not descended in time, I write to assure you that they have been officially sent by our word.”_

“…They never mentioned Shamir or Cyril would be coming.” Dimitri admits.

“Oh, _Teach._ Well. Anyway, we depart the day after tomorrow, so actually, you’ll have some time to relax.” Claude tells them, insisting, “We _gotta_ catch up. And Cyril! There’s Almyran soldiers here. You oughta go meet them.”

“Ugh. _No._ I almost turned this trip down because of that.”

“What?! But they’re your countrymen! They’re _our_ countrymen! Don’t you want to—”

“No.”

“But Cyril—”

“No.”

“You know—”

“ _No._ ”

Claude throws his hands up. “I don’t understand you!”

“Yeah, and I don’t understand _you_ , either! Or them, for that matter!” Cyril huffs. “I _only came_ for _Byleth_ and for _Shamir_ , but I don’t care about anything else, okay?”

“Come _on_ , isn’t it time you—”

“ _No._ ”

“Claude.” Ingrid gives his arm a whack. “Leave him alone. We don’t have time to find a replacement if you drive him to quit.”

“I won’t quit, no matter how annoying he is.” Cyril insists. Ingrid chokes back a laugh, while Claude gives her a wry look. “Byleth asked me, so I’m gonna do it, and see it through properly.”

“Right. Of course.” Clearing his throat, Dimitri offers a quick, courteous bow. “We’ll be in your care, then.”

“Is Ashe here?” He asks hopefully. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“Unfortunately, Ashe is not in Fhirdiad at the moment.” Dimitri hates the way his excitement is so clearly dashed. “I believe he will be back within the next few weeks. Perhaps he will be here upon our return.”

“Oh. Really? Where is he? Doing knight stuff? Do you really think he’ll be back by then? How’s he doing?”

Ashe is not officially a knight, but Dimitri doesn’t have the heart to correct him.

“He’s up north, aiding in the border defense. He’s doing quite well, though I do hope he will be back soon. His presence is very missed.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Claude cautions. “I told Sylvain and Felix they could keep him _as long as they wanted_ , and they like his work, so…hate to say it, but he might really be up there for _good._ We might have to officially reassign him.”

“Awh, _what?_ ” Cyril’s face falls, and Ingrid smacks Claude’s shoulder hard enough to make him yelp.

“Stop teasing him! Cyril, don’t listen to Claude. He’s lying, and they’re _not_ keeping him.”

“Yowch! What kind of bodyguards are you? You’re watching me get _assaulted_.”

“Over dramatic as always.” Shamir notes, unmoved. Cyril gives him a dirty look.

“Yeah, and?”

“So, like, do something about it.”

Cyril huffs. “Hit him again for me, Ingrid.”

“My pleasure.”

“No, no, no! Back up, Galatea!”

•••❂❂❂•••

Days off or no, Dimitri’s nightmares come as sharp as icicles that night. Unforgiving, cutting and chilling down to the bone, driving him from the warmth and comfort of their bed.

When Claude wakes, it’s to his restless pacing, his stuttered breathing in the dark. He sits up to the sounds of Dimitri’s panicked muttering as he squints in the dimly lit room, assessing the scene.

“Dimitri?”

Startled by Claude’s sleep-dry voice, he stops, and stares.

There’s just enough light by which to make out his pallid complexion. The terror and anguish in his tiny, jerky movements while he rubs his arms, looks at the floor, out the window. One, two, three, shaking, trembling breaths, too quick and too unsteady.

“Hey,” Moving slowly, Claude eases himself up and out of bed. “What happened? Was it a nightmare?”

“I—”

Clearing his throat, Dimitri looks briefly at him, before finding anywhere _but_ him.

“I’m sorry. I woke you again. Please, go back to sleep. I’ll excuse myself.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Clearly not the case.” Claude steps to catch him before he can flee from the room. “Let me rephrase. You’re definitely not _fine._ ”

“I _am_ fine. Please, I’ll just—”

“Dimitri.” Claude says softly, hands coming up to cup his arms, gentle as can be. “Shush. Listen to me, okay?”

Struggling to meet his eye, Dimitri nods, drawn out as thin as a silk thread.

“Easy. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Nice and slow.”

Dimitri tries. He does.

They’ve had a few nights like this. Dimitri tries to hide, but unfortunately for him, Claude still wakes too easily. More and more, he’s insisted to see them through with him, despite the apologies, the guilty downturn of eyes, mouth, come the daybreak.

Dimitri is still trembling beneath his hands, hands clenched too tightly at his own elbows. His breathing is erratic, and he shifts in place, like he wants to keep pacing. Too restless, too adrenaline-addled and anxiety-laden.

But even with Claude guiding him, after a few moments, the dam bursts again and Dimitri shakes him off, flinching back as though the touch were too much, as though it burns.

“No,” He says, shaking his head, “No, no, no. I. Please. Don’t. I. I’ll just.”

Claude lets him ride out the outburst, watching patiently as he turns away and runs an exasperated hand through his hair. A choked breath comes up empty from his hollowed out chest, dry and cracking as an ancient tree, dropping his face into his hands and giving a defeated, frustrated, breath.

When he’s gone quiet again, Claude tries again. “Hey. I’m going to light a few lamps, and I’ll make us some tea.”

Dimitri doesn’t respond, and he turns to leave, before after a second thought, he pauses. “Actually, come with me. Come on. Let’s go.”

It takes a few moments.

Slowly, Dimitri unfolds, just a tiny bit.

“Come on. Follow me.”

Numbly, Dimitri does. Sits miserably on the couch in their sitting room while Claude gets a small fire going, heats a kettle of water.

“This is my fault. I’m sorry. Please go back to sleep.”

“Can’t sleep with the fire going.” Claude says idly. “And now the more that I’m thinking about the tea, the better the idea sounds. I don’t think I could go back to bed without it.”

Dimitri probably knows that’s a lie. But he doesn’t reply, not even to refute it.

Once the tea is brewed and poured, soft tendrils of steam scenting the air with rose and chamomile, Claude takes a seat on the floor by his legs. Knowing better than to offer it immediately, he leaves a cup within Dimitri’s reach, but takes his own, appreciating the warmth against his hands.

Quiet, they watch the fire, flickering ruby-gold-tiger’s eye.

“This is… this is so shameful.” Dimitri whispers into his hands. “I’m sorry, Claude. You didn’t ask for this.”

“No. But you know what? Neither did you.”

Taking a long, slow sip, Claude drapes an arm over his knee, and muses, “It’s the part of the stories no one tells you as a kid. The terrible things you went through? The things war makes you see, makes you do? It just. It takes something out of us. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”

He’d sat beside many a weeping soldier through similar episodes of their own. In private, he’s nearly collapsed on himself. _By_ himself. Those nights felt so long, and so dark, that he didn’t know, in the moment, how he would see them through. Or if he could.

Dimitri’s shadows are longer than most, probably reach their claws further than he can, far, far into his broken heart and fractured mind.

That doesn’t mean he can’t sit with him until his breathing evens out, until he can hold a cup without breaking it at first touch.

“Did you want to talk about it?”

“I…I cannot.”

“Alright.”

From what he can tell, as the seconds tick by on the grand old little clock on the mantle, it’s just past two in the morning. Stepping them in a slow one-two-three, tick-tock-tick, while Dimitri folds in like a paper house. Tense and silent, imploding and collapsing. Like a fallen star, flickering and weeping.

“You don’t have to tend to me. I’m fine.”

It’s useless to argue, again, that Dimitri is very _not_ fine, so he doesn’t.

“Sure. I don’t have to. But I’m here anyway.” He replies, rolling the empty cup along his leg, so he can watch the dregs swirl around the bottom.

“…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Claude—”

“Mm?”

“…”

Claude yawns.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Blinking back awake, Claude looks at him over his shoulder.

“Hurt me? How and when and why would you?”

“I. I don’t know.”

Shriveling in further, Dimitri’s shoulders hunch in and down, practically folding beneath the weight of his imagined, future transgression.

“Then why are you worrying about it?”

“Because I am afraid that I will.”

He almost brushes it off, then something clicks.

“Was that your nightmare? Did you dream that you hurt me?”

Dimitri flinches, curls his hands.

“N. No. I. I dreamt that…”

Claude waits, but the rest doesn’t come. Dimitri shakes his head, and breaks down smaller, shuddering as though plunged beneath the surface of an icy lake.

“They were old dreams.” He admits. "It reminds me that…”

Once again, his words die out, curl and burn like ash, like paper tossed to the fire.

Claude stretches his arms overhead, flexes out his back.

Waits.

Then he yawns, and tilts to his side, letting his head come to rest on Dimitri’s knee.

“To be unable to trust your own mind,” Dimitri whispers, “Is…”

He trails off after that, and lets the thought drift to nothing, to smoke gone thin.

Meanwhile, Claude contemplates this, along with all the other fragments that Dimitri has let slip. Shards of iridescent glass that he clutches with both hands, afraid to let them be seen.

“You’re tired,” Dimitri reasons, “No need to wait for me. Please, go back to sleep.”

“Not until you drink this tea I went through all this trouble to lovingly make.” Claude replies simply.

A few minutes pass, and then a few more, with wind rustling outside the window, licks of wintry promise that whistle against the glass, slowly shake the treetops bare.

Until Dimitri can pick up the ceramic, gentle as his trembling hands can be, neither of them speak.

Not until that trembling ceases, the cups drained, filled, emptied again, does Claude put out the fire, and herd them both back to the bedroom.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no more of that.” Claude reaches across the mattress and gives Dimitri’s cheek a pinch. “You don’t apologize for this anymore.”

His hand is caught before he can pull it back.

“Then…” Dimitri’s breath is warm. They each smell of steam and herbs from the tea, along with a bit of the wilds, from their spent firewood.

“Mm?”

Dimitri closes his eyes, finger tips curling into Claude’s palm.

They’re warm, too. Gentle. Soft as the hint of his lips brushing across his pulse point.

“Thank you.”

•••❂❂❂•••

Of the many little pleasures in life that Claude partakes in, his morning ritual is one of them. Rising with the sun, watching the slightest hint of daybreak on the horizon while he slips from bed.

He crosses and slips silently from the room. Out to the washroom, and then into the sunroom, drawing back the curtains. He gets the brazier going first, along with some tea to warm him from the inside.

Meditating is one of his lesser-known pastimes. It had helped steady him when it felt like the ground was breaking beneath his feet, and whispered wordless, soothing lullabies to his mind when every corner seemed ablaze.

Once he’s found himself comfortably awake and peaceful in the early hour solitude, he sits, cross-legged, on the floor.

Good posture, back straight but loose. Shoulders back, but unwound.

He’s at his most vulnerable when meditating, and it was a risk he’d always taken. It was a challenge in itself to overcome the uneasiness it would leave him in.

Eyes closed, hands relaxed and balanced on his legs, and conscious of where they sit.

Slowly, he takes one breath in, releases it through parted lips.

Another.

Another.

Lets his mind rest to near nothing, listens to its notes and as they arise in small, distant beats.

Every emotion, every thought, its own.

Though they overlap, threaten to tangle, he doesn’t allow them. Turns them over and examines them as though a stone found along a path. Notes their weight, their textures, the sensations they leave along his hands, and releases them.

Clarity comes sweet and refreshing, and he’s awash in calm.

At peace, he lets himself drift in the mindspace.

He rarely misses a day, and misses it when he does. Sometimes it can’t be helped; sometimes the call of bed is simply stronger, and sometimes, he can’t find the place to be sufficiently alone for it.

Although, having private rooms doesn’t hurt, along with a husband who doesn’t sleep _late_ , but awakes a little more solidly on the other side of daybreak than he.

Dimitri had slept uneasily, last night, and probably won’t awaken for some more time. The nightmare had _fiercely_ rattled him, and he’d looked at the bed as though it weren’t so much a haven as it was a guillotine.

Even after they had cloaked themselves in blankets and quiet, Dimitri thrummed with nervous energy. His breaths came unsteady, and shuddered, curled up and curled in on himself.

Claude had stared at his back in the dark, watching Dimitri wrestle the demons that crawled along his spine.

Once or twice, he thought about chasing them away. About bridging the valley between he and his suffering husband, plagued by blackened, evil whispers of war and grief that refuse to leave. He had thought about dashing away the specters that dare grind his noble bones to dust night after night, punching black beneath his eyes.

But Dimitri pulled away. Farther and farther, and out of his reach.

•••❂❂❂•••

Come midday, Ingrid wanders the halls in search of a quiet place to take her break before her afternoon training. She finds Claude unexpectedly, in one of the sitting rooms. Alone, and deep in concentration while he tinkers with a gutted pocket watch, squinting at one of a handful of books open and scattered on the floor around him.

“You know, I could take that to be repaired for you,” She offers. “You don’t have to sit here and struggle with it.”

“Oh no, no, it’s fine.” He says without looking up. “I need a new hobby anyway. Might as well add ‘watch repair’ to my list of skills, right?”

“You are most odd.” Shaking her head, she scolds, “And _why_ are you seated on the floor? For heaven’s sake, there’s a table _right there_.”

“Ah, who cares?”

“You’re a king! You shouldn’t be seen rolling around on the ground!”

“I’m king, and that should mean I can roll around anywhere I want. Technically.”

Rolling her eyes, she sits on the sofa beside him and leans onto her knees, watching him work. “Have you made any progress, at least?”

“I think? Maybe—oh. Nope. Just broke something, I think. Bah.”

“May I see?”

He hands it over, and sighs, flopping onto his back along the carpet while she examines it.

“It looks quite antique,” Ingrid turns it over, gently closing the cover to examine the embossed wolf along the metal, engaged in chase with fleeing rabbits. “It’s lovely, but a little ominous…wherever did you get it?”

“Oh, just something I picked up a while ago. I don’t know where it originally came from.”

Claude yawns, rubbing his palms into his eyes.

Delicately turning it over in her hands, she examines the little inner workings, the tarnished crevices of the metal.

“I bet this would be beautiful, all polished up.”

“And ruin its character? Never!”

“You are indeed a strange one. Though I suppose it has a charm of its own as is.”

Without opening his eyes, Claude smiles, languidly folding an arm beneath his head for a cushion. “See? You get it.”

“…Are you alright? You look like you could fall asleep right where you are.”

“I probably could.” Yawning again, loud and unhindered, he stretches out. “If there’s a blanket in sight, kindly bring it over.”

“Claude,” A scolding is already implied by her tone. “If you’re really so tired in the middle of the day, you ought to go rest. Why are you so exhausted, anyway?”

“Didn’t sleep much last night, if you wanna know the truth.”

Hesitating, Ingrid chews her lip. “It’s…not really my business, but. Is anything troubling you?”

“Lookit you, all concerned for me, rather than properly lecturing me about napping during the daytime! Now that’s what I call character development.”

“Perhaps I should drag you to the training yard.” She warns, nudging his side with her toe. 

“Stop! After the exercises this morning!?” He whines and curls away from her. “You’re ruthless.”

“It would be the perfect remedy for your drowsiness, now wouldn’t it? I think it’s a fine idea. You’d best not let your skills get rusty.”

“You’re also cruel.”

“I only want the best for you, Your Majesty.” She teases.

Right outside this sitting room, is the veranda where he, Dimitri, and Byleth had taken breakfast the day after the wedding. As they sit, the dappled sunlight drapes a shimmering cloak over the view, through the wide windows.

“Hey, Galatea.”

“Hm?”

“Who’s Glenn?”

Immediately there’s a shift in the air. Opening his eyes, he can see the shade of grief slipping over her lovely face, likely an all-too familiar friend.

“Where did you hear that name?” She asks, and her voice is so forlorn, so brokenly soft, that his regret in asking matches his curiosity.

At the very least, he can match her troubled expression with honesty.

“Dimitri mumbled it in his sleep.”

“I see.”

Turning over the watch in her hands, Ingrid traces the shapes with her fingertips.

“He was Felix’s older brother, and my betrothed, a long time ago. We were matched when I was quite young, but he…he died during the Duscur tragedy. In His late Majesty’s service as one of his knights.”

“…I’m sorry to hear that. Even though that probably really doesn’t mean anything at all.”

“Well…I appreciate it, nonetheless.” A little false smile pulls at her mouth, lashes bowing low over the tops of her cheeks. “I don’t think Dimitri ever quite got over his death. Or Felix. Well…maybe none of us really did.”

“It must have been quite the blow.”

“It was. We all _loved_ Glenn. Admired him. He was gallant, and strong. He seemed like a hero to us. And Dimitri…Dimitri was the only one there to see his death.” Ingrid raises her eyes to Claude’s, heavy as a water-laden leaf beneath the rain. “Did he have another nightmare about him?”

“…Yeah.”

She nods, understanding. Drops her gaze back down to the watch, idly poking about its equally tarnished cogs, behind the clear quartz glass face.

“So this…isn’t a new or surprising thing.”

“No.”

Although he wants to know more, the hunch of Ingrid’s usually proud shoulders is enough to stop him.

Leaning forward, she sighs, lips tight.

“It’s so hard to watch him hurt, Claude.” She says finally, softly. “For all these years, and not be able to do anything.”

Claude takes this in, turning over all the implications that carries.

“He holds it all in, and holds us all so far away, where we can’t see him slowly fall to pieces.” She anguishes, and watches a pair of birds flit about outside. Little brown sparrows that dive from branch to branch, disappearing between leaves and chiming with their soft little chirps.

“He keeps himself together. Until he just can’t anymore. Right where we can, and can’t, see him. One day, I fear we will lose him again.”

Her throat flexes as she swallows. A worried wrinkle forms between her brows, while she absentmindedly turns the watch between her hands.

“And I’m always afraid for that day.”

•••❂❂❂•••

With the soldiers housed in the royal estate and given reign of the grounds, the training yard remains bustling from early morning until evening. The Almyrans that do not wander the gardens and the surrounding Fhirdiad spend the majority of their time there, mingling with the Fodlan trainees and soldiers. It seems mostly amicable, even if some appear more wary than others.

“I warned them to be on their best behavior.” Claude tells Dimitri as they pass by, “And Ingrid threatened expulsion to all the recruits and soldiers if they caused trouble.”

“Do you think there will be?”

“Mm. Bound to be a little bit of kerfuffle here and there. We just can’t have anything escalate.” Claude crosses his arms, thoughtful.

“...Shamir speaks Almyran?” Taken aback, Dimitri watches as she chats with an Almyran soldier.

They start walking again while Claude explains, “A little bit. It’s not super comprehensive, from what she says, but she can more or less get around. She did say she wanted to visit Almyra after the war. Suppose she made her way there after all.”

“Do you think that’s why Byleth sent her and Cyril? Do they know that?”

“Maybe. Could be. Who knows what goes on in their head.”

Soon after that, Claude excuses himself for “a date with a very lovely lady”, which Dimitri only assumes can be Nylah.

Ingrid and Dedue have banned him from their offices, and as he learns, filling his time with something other than work is not only difficult, but nearly unfathomable.

Two entire days to himself, and nary an idea of how to spend it.

He takes some time reading a few books that he has let mostly fall by the wayside, and finds that his head hums too loudly for him to concentrate. A walk around the grounds helps clear his thoughts somewhat, but reminds him that it’s near impossible for him to be anywhere without gathering attention. If not from his staff, then from the soldiers that are now spread to seemingly every corner.

Defeated, he’s on his way back towards the inner palace grounds when he spots Cyril trying to extract himself from a couple of Almyran soldiers. Much to his disinterest, if not downright annoyance, they wind arms around his shoulders, which he slips from, and pat his arm with assuring, enthusiastic tones that he only offers gruff responses to before escaping again.

Dimitri has seldom heard Almyran spoken aloud, and so his attention catches on the flow of unknown words. So much so, he almost misses his chance to catch Cyril himself as he tries to rush by, bringing him along with him to the inner grounds of the palace so he may be left alone. It’s restricted to common soldiers and casual guests, and assures Cyril that he’ll find himself unbothered.

“Thanks, Dimitri—I mean, Your Majesty.” Cyril relaxes, visibly relieved. “I don’t know why they wanna talk to me so bad.”

“They’re probably curious.” Dimitri offers. “I don’t have to tell you that there are not many Almyrans residing in Fodlan.”

“Well, that’s not _my_ problem.” He pouts, and scuffs his boot along the ground. “I’m just here for the job. I mean, I like you and all, and Byleth _really_ likes you, so I said yeah, but I don’t wanna deal with them.”

“I’m sorry. We will be in their company for several weeks.”

“Nah, don’t be sorry. _You’re_ not the one bothering me. Besides, it’s for you. Byleth said you and Claude are going on this trip to help people, and I like that. That’s what good kings should do, so I’ll help.”

The forthrightness with which Cyril says so is oddly sweet, and he mumbles a reply as Cyril, cheerful now that he’s left alone, tells him, “Anyway, I’m gonna go find that fishing spot Byleth was telling me about! They said to bring them back a good catch. I dunno how to get it back in time, but I guess I’ll figure it out. Say, do you know which one they meant?”

“Likely the one out the north gate,” Dimitri smiles. He’d spent precious afternoons beside the river with Byleth, wiling away the few minutes they had to themselves. “Follow the path that leaves out past the marble gates with the griffin statue. Ingrid or Dedue know which one, if you’re unsure or can’t find it.”

“Okay! Thanks!”

Once parted, Dimitri’s in the same conundrum as before.

Finding himself too drained to socialize, and without Claude to entertain him, he does the truly unthinkable; he returns to his apartments for a nap.

And even that escapes him. He is too restless, the whispers of last night still grasping cold fingers down his back.

How does Claude do it? Or Byleth, for that matter. The two of them have a talent for falling asleep wherever and whenever they choose, making themselves comfortable in places he couldn’t imagine.

He’s seen Byleth in deep sleep in the grass, on benches, on their desk, and even the church pews more than once, much to Seteth’s disapproval. If he hadn’t become accustomed to the sight of Claude asleep on various Not A Bed surfaces, he would have joined Ingrid in her panic upon walking into the office one warm afternoon to find him sprawled motionless on the floor.

(She had shrieked, while Dimitri had laughed, and she had slapped them both silly. Claude had called it an extremely rude awakening. He had, after all, been sleeping.)

Instead, his muscles beg for use. Uneasy and restless, he finds himself in the private training yard. It’s a bit smaller, but at least he’s alone as he selects a practice lance off the rack.

The sets come as second nature by now. Practiced, automatic motions that he doesn’t have to contemplate. Swing, jab, follow through; step, swing, guard.

His breath comes hot, turning to puffs of fog in the chilled air. The cold burns his throat, seeps deep into his lungs while the blood pounds in his ears, rushing to warm all the way down to his fingertips.

He had dreamed of war.

Grip turning fierce on the shaft of the lance, he has to remind himself to loosen it when the lacquered wood gives an ominous crack.

Then he swings again, steps through, pivots his stance. Makes the air around him sing in sharp whistles against the blade.

_Fiery ruins ran as far as he could see. Monstrous, charred conglomerations of the palace, of Garreg Mach, of Gronder, the visions too quick and the landscape changing too swiftly for the ground to stay beneath his feet._

_Screams and blood, flesh ripped asunder and left to pool between blades of red, red grass._

Sweat drips down his temple, his neck. How long has he been going?

Still, he does not stop.

For he had dreamed of ruin and destruction, and his powerlessness to stop its horrible, looming, laughing face. Though he had tried, thrashing against the visions of those he knows, knew, loved, falling to its heavy hand.

Dimitri prays that it’s not a premonition.

Again and again, the weapon crushes through air, reaches nothing, awakens the calluses on his palms and fingers in burning glory.

Dreams have, for so long, been so vivid, so visceral, that it is difficult sometimes to not blur them with memory. Copper ink and dark stains mingling the waking and unconscious, visions real and imagined, rubbing off metallic and tacky on his fingertips.

_Glenn again, crying out in agony as the life is cut from him in crimson streaks, crying in hopeless grief for Felix. Felix, who lays still next to him, the fire of his eyes gone out._

_And their father beside them._

_“This is your fault.” The voices tell him. Matter-of-fact and cold._

_"You owe them blood."  
_

With a desperate, horrible twist of rising panic, Dimitri turns and hurls the weapon as a javelin. It easily clears the half of the yard to bury itself in a wooden target, splintering through it to break it clean off its post with a loud crack, to topple to the ground.

As does he, finally succumbing to the emptiness of his pounding lungs, the shaky weeping of his muscles. Dropping heavily to sit on the frigid earth, he bites his lip, forces down a wave of despair that rises like bile, while he buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t want to summon anyone who may be nearby, and yet the images coat the back of his eyelids, unbidden and unwelcome.

_Byleth, lifeless, impaled on their own Sword, glowing brightly and catching wayward strands of their celestial hair, blood trickling from parted lips._

_"This is your fault," A serpentine hiss from the wind, from the ground, a blade slid between his ribs, straight into his pounding heart._

_“And this, too.”_

_And a claymore, shadowed black and glinting death along its edge, swings downward._

_A familiar voice bursts out in agony, ringing clear with its death throes._

_It mixes with Dimitri’s, who screams so loudly, his throat may split. His chest may splinter._

_Let it._

_Let it._

•••❂❂❂•••

_“Plippity plop, plippity plop,_ _  
__Listen to the the rain drop, drip, drop,_

_Splish splash, listen to them play,_ _  
__Finish your chores, we don’t have all day!_ _  
__Hurry, hurry,_ _  
__Then we can play!_

_Zoomy, bloomy, BAM,_ _  
__Wow! Listen to the thunder boom!_

_Who says the rain is gloomy?_ _  
__Not me, not me!_

_Plippity plop, plippity plop!”_

“…So? What do you think?”

“Adorable. Magnificent. Fantastic. Instant art.”

“ _Ohh_ , stop making fun of me!”

“I’m not!” Claude insists, palms up. “It’s great, Annette.”

“So then why are you laughing?”

“Was I not supposed to? I thought it was cute.”

“It still needs some work…” She admits, tapping her pen to her temple and looking at the sheet music in front of her.

“Seems like it’s going pretty well to me.” He shrugs.

Unconvinced, she pouts her bottom lip out, a darling little wrinkle forming between her brows as she thinks.

It had been no small feat to sneak out, and sneak around unnoticed. But once free, a roughspun cloak and a scarf did wonders for disguising himself among Fhirdiad’s citizens. They’d made a game of it, traipsing about the bustling avenues and down quieter streets, finding a diner for lunch, and a cafe for dessert. Annette’s eyes had positively lit up at the delicate frostwork of the honey cake in the window, and he hadn’t the heart to deny her.

A few people had eyed him as they went. Perhaps thinking him familiar, but unable to place from where, before Annette excitedly pulled at his sleeve and hauled him off to whatever next caught her attention.

And now here they sit, in her apartment, with fresh hot cider to go with said cake. Charmingly decorated with colorful knickknacks and crafts, littered with tokens of affection from her students, the sitting room is just the right size for entertaining a guest or two. She almost sticks her pen in her mouth instead of her fork before he stops her, and she squeals in horror.

“Oh, gosh, I can’t believe I almost did that!” Flushing, she drops the pen safely away from her plate while he laughs.

“No worries. I’ve almost done the same sorta thing. So, anyway, these are for Mercedes, right?”

“Yeah! She asked if I could write something for the kids at the church, and I thought it’d be _easy…_ but it’s so much pressure when someone is actually _expecting_ something. I always just…I dunno, I never put that much thought into them! But now? Especially for Mercie. It has to be _perfect._ _They_ have to be perfect.”

“How many are you writing?”

“As many as I can!” She insists, determined and clenching her dainty hands.

“I’m sure you’ll make those kids very happy.”

He means that, and she giggles.

“Say, help me with this one, would you? I’ve been really stuck on it…”

“I’d be glad to. Lemme at them.”

•••❂❂❂•••

An afternoon with the absolute beam of sunshine that is Annette is one well spent, and he’s still in good cheer once back inside the royal estate’s towering walls.

He doesn’t think too much of it when Dimitri isn’t immediately to be found. With truly enormous ground to wander, and no itinerary to hint at which direction he might be in, it’s hard to find any one single person at any given time.

Come evening, he begins to become more curious.

None of the servants seem to know. The stablehands haven’t seen him, when he asks on his way to check on Nylah. So he hadn’t taken Anais out, and he hadn't been seen in the dining room at all.

Unexpectedly, he gets a lead in Cyril, hauling an impressive catch of fish from the afternoon, set up on one of the steps outside the smoking shed and prepping them all.

“I saw him this afternoon,” Cyril replies casually, his knife slicing easily through the fish’s belly. “He walked me to the inner grounds and that was the last I saw of him.”

“When was that?”

Pausing to think, Cyril hums. “About three or four hours ago or so, I’d say.”

“Any idea where he went?”

“How would I? I didn’t follow him. What, did you lose your own husband, Claude? Pretty irresponsible, I’d say. Aren’t you supposed to take care of each other and all that, if you’re married?”

“Thanks, Cyril.”

•••❂❂❂•••

“Dimitri? You in here, oh darling husband of mine?”

There’s no answer as the door locks behind him, only silence greeting his call.

Old fears mix with new as he makes his way inside their apartments. Of shadows come alive, danger turned sharp and real. His gut begins to churn.

“…Dimitri?”

A chill flutters the drape by the window, evening’s blue glow around its edges. He pauses only to latch it closed, and cuts through the parlor, down the hall to glance inside the empty study.

When he crosses into the sunroom, he lets out a sigh of relief at the familiar shape laying down against the cushions. And without meaning to, he finds himself drawing towards it, brought on quiet footsteps to drop into a crouch.

_He was here. He was just here, resting—_

And nearly shrieks in surprise, because Dimitri is _awake_ , a piercing blue eye fastened on him _._

“Sweet saints in the lake of life, _why_ did you have to _scare_ me like that!? I thought you were _asleep!_ ” Claude slaps at his side.

“Sorry.” Dimitri mumbles, and closes his eye, while Claude huffs and plops to the floor. “I wasn’t.”

“Well, no use pretending _now_.”

Dimitri doesn’t say anything else, and Claude’s humor drops to the ground with a thud beside him.

There’s stress etched into the lines around Dimitri’s eyes. His eyepatch is pulled out of place, the edge of his ominous, grisly scar clawing out from beneath the soft black leather. Tension at the corners of his mouth, shoulders hunched high and tight from the pain of no visible wound.

“…Hey.”

One blue eye cracks open, dully inquisitive.

“Yes? Did you need me for something?”

His voice itself is a ghost.

“No,” Claude leans forward, crossing his arms on the edge of the cushions and leaning in to muse. “But I was wondering how you spent your day.”

“Reading. Training.”

“Yeah?”

“And you? Did you spend the entire day with Nylah?”

“Huh?”

“You said you had a date with a lovely lady.”

“…Oh! Guess I did. But. No, for once I wasn’t talking about Nylah. I went to see Annette.”

“Annette…? Ah. I see.” Dimitri’s lip curls in a smirk.

“See what?”

“You have been the unfaithful one after all.”

“What?! I have _not_ been! We just went out for lunch and then bought some cake—”

“—Surely, the way to Annette’s heart—”

“Dimitri!” Claude tries to scold, but fails when it dissolves to laughter. “It’s not like that! She was sharing these children’s songs she’s composing. And guess what, she even made this _adorable_ bow for Nylah—”

“Singing _and_ gifts for Nylah? Then she is the one trying to steal you away?”

“Wow. _Wow._ This is what I come home to, after a long day of not working? And I was all worried for you over nothing.”

With a sigh, he turns to flop back against the side of the sofa.

“…Worried? For me? Why?”

“Cause no one’d seen you all day since this morning, and I had no idea where you were, and I came in and—oh, forget it. It sounds stupid, now that I say it out loud.”

But truthfully, his worry hasn’t quite ceased. Dimitri may be joking, but his quips lack mirth, the blue of his eye drowned in thoughts too dark for its normal gleam.

“…Maybe I shouldn’t have left you alone, today.” Claude props his chin up on an elbow, watching Dimitri slowly shut himself away, shrinking back behind layers of doubt. “You don’t look so good.”

Dimitri shifts, slowly, as though weighted.

“I’m fine.”

Claude holds back a sigh.

_Of course he is._

He doesn’t move much the rest of the evening.

Claude leaves him be for a while. He only ventures out to find the head servant on duty and requests that their dinner be brought up for them.

“A quiet night in for us. You understand.” He purrs to Alicia, who blushes lightly and nods, insisting her thorough understanding before flitting off.

…She may have gotten the wrong idea. Well. At least the rumors will be in their favor, this time.

“Is it evening already?” Is all Dimitri has to say when he’s roused long enough to eat.

“It’s _been_ evening, Oh Sleepy King.” Claude shakes his shoulder. “Come on, don’t make me eat alone.”

He brings in the tray that the cooks had generously laden full for them. He sits with their plates on the floor, Dimitri protesting weakly as he pulls himself upright.

“We should go to the dining room, not eat our dinner here.”

“Says who? We can do what we want in our own rooms.”

Dimitri ruminates on this, but takes the bowl of stew that Claude hands him, a slab of tender beef laid across the steaming broth.

So they eat out of their laps, Dimitri much too little and much too slowly before he’s trying to set it back down on the tray.

“Come on, you can’t be full yet.” Claude gently shoves his hand back, and Dimitri blinks, surprised to be argued with. But he easily gives into it.

He had thought both Dedue and Ingrid’s fussing over him came from their very natures; worrying, loving, nurturing.

_Maybe they had reason to worry, after all._

Maybe there’s more to it than he had thought all along.

In the firelight, Dimitri’s hair shines gold, but the shadows on his face are stark as a raven’s wing, his mind far away as the flight of one.

Taking him not to sweet daydreams, but to whatever cruel thing has decided to cut him through this time.

Still, when he starts chattering, Dimitri listens. Nods and smiles as appropriate, distantly conversing just enough to keep it going.

“So there we were, clinging to the bricks,” He illustrates his story with his hands, “And I’m like, _Lorenz how the hell did you manage to kick the ladder completely out from under us_ , and he was all, _Well perhaps if you had been paying attention as a noble properly should_ , yadda yadda, you know how _he_ is, and then it starts to _rain_. And if you’ve never tried to climb the Garreg Mach walls, lemme tell you, _slippery_ bastards. Especially when wet. And I was like, _well, that’s it, we’re dead,_ right?”

Dimitri is biting his lip, chuckling behind a fist. “I can’t believe you. All for a—”

“Yes! God! A goddamn _bird_ that fell out of its little nest, and Bernadetta started to _cry_ , and because she was _so heartbroken_ over it, of course we _had_ to do something about it. I’ve still got the little thing in my jacket pocket, mind you, and it’s _cheep-cheep-cheep’ing,_ and, she starts crying _harder_ and screaming that she's _murdered us and will be haunted forever by our vengeful ghosts_ or some such, and runs off to find help—”

“—But couldn’t she have just…?”

“Lifted the ladder back up for us? Yeah, she could have, but she didn’t hear any of that as she was doing the running-away-and-shrieking thing…”

By the end of the meal, Dimitri’s spirits seemed to be at least pried part way out of the grave, a little bit of actual _color_ back in the blue of his eye, and even some rouge to his cheeks. What’s more, while distracted, he had cleared his entire plate, and ate more when Claude refilled it for him.

Satisfied, they ease to a natural lull in their silence, the room fallen to night around them aside from the fiery dance in the hearth.

“You had some rather lively adventures back at the academy.”

“Ah, that was nothing.” Claude slumps against the sofa, propping his elbow up over Dimitri’s leg. “Surely you have some stories of your own.”

“Nothing as colorful as that.”

“It’s a funny memory,” He recalls fondly. “But not all that interesting.”

“But you retell it so vividly.” Dimitri remarks, voice gone soft as an ember. “It’s a joy to listen to you tell your tales.”

“…Well. As long as it entertains you.”

•••❂❂❂•••

Nearly the whole day, he has been sinking. Slowly, but surely, thickly, as if through mud, black and unforgiving, creeping up to his lungs and drowning out the world around his ears.

Training had done well for him and his mood, until the wave had suddenly broken upon his back. Knocked him to a place he hated to be, swarmed him with the memories of his nightmares, left him battered and hollow and _angry._

How the solitude had felt so soothing, and so painful.

And how warm Claude’s arm on his leg, how melodic his laugh and how its chime brushes away the dust from his edges.

Surprisingly full from dinner, eased back to feeling almost a man, almost _human_ , Dimitri relates to the calm that comes after a storm. Tremulous, frail in the face of uncertain peace.

“I’m sorry that I am not being much of a conversation partner this evening,” He confesses, “But I will happily listen to as many stories as you are willing to share.”

At first, Claude doesn’t reply. He makes a still canvas for the firelight to flicker over, catching wayward strands of umber hair and the sharp line of his brow, down to the slope of his nose and across the gentle in-out rise and fall of his chest with each precious breath.

“I don’t mind sharing, if it cheers you up at least a little bit.”

Before he can say anything else, Claude tilts his head back to meet his eye. Searching, gentle as can be.

“Are you feeling better?”

There is little hiding from him. Less and less so, the more time they are around each other. Claude is too keen, and he should have known better, he _should_ have. And although Dimitri wants to disguise himself, patch himself over as many times as needed to keep himself hidden away…

He doesn’t think he can. Not anymore. Not as he is.

“I am,” All but a whisper, dropping his gaze to the floor, on the empty space between his feet. “I am. Thank you. I’m sorry to be worrying you so.”

“Don’t be. You still look kinda off. We can put the trip off for another day or two, you know.” Claude suggests, “If you want to take it easy and rest a bit more.”

“No, no,” Dimitri shakes his head. “That’s unnecessary. It is too important to be delayed.”

“You sure?”

“Quite.”

“…Hm. If you insist. Just don’t push yourself too much, alright?”

With the way his head is tilted, the light brushes gold along his edges, bringing forward the olive-tone of his skin against the sienna shadows that make up his mysteries. Complexities that only deepen with the forest paths that his eyes promise to hold, playfully mocking with little upturns that mark the corners of his lips.

What he wouldn’t give to freely wander them. Pick through thorn bushes if he must, if he could only manage to be so gentle as to not break those branches.

Perhaps only seconds. Mere moments.

Perhaps an eternity.

What he wouldn’t give for that.

•••❂❂❂•••

There’s that charming shyness again. It’s actually heartbreaking, how Dimitri seems so reluctant to see himself as worthy of…anything. But charming, nonetheless.

And it means there’s a bit more of him back in his own mind, and less out to horizons that Claude can’t see over.

Dimitri’s gaze is flitting, dropping off him and down to the floor. Creeping up to his own hands, over the notched scars and broken, healed, wonderfully imperfect hands that do so well to warm his own in the cold.

And then all of a sudden it’s on him. _Him._

So intent, it may as well be a touch. Raising goosebumps along the back of his neck, with how focused that sharp icy blue is, raising a trail over his chest to walk along. Summoning that animal back up to growl and bite down.

Fear and excitement sometimes go hand in hand, and while his mind howls _danger_ , _danger_ , oh how that animal lets his blood run hot.

…How long have they been staring at each other?

Locked in a still-form dance.

Dimitri’s lips part, as though to speak again.

Falls silent, though Claude wishes he would continue.

His brow twitches, bows to inner conflict that he could, should, chase away. If he only has so much power.

Dimitri’s eye flickers away.

Comes back.

Tinged with desperation.

And, if he is not—if he is not imagining—

—If he is not fooling himself, more than he can fool anyone else—

“Claude…”

“Mm?”

Barely a breath. Thin as silk. Heat from the burning tinder.

Dimitri leans forward.

Looking oh so small, for the great and noble king of Fodlan, Dimitri hesitates, and prays for the most humble of beginnings.

“May I have your hand?”

And Claude could almost laugh. In near disbelief, he obliges.

Dimitri’s grasp is as gentle as can be, cradling his hand, thumb running wondrously across his knuckles, fingertips grazing his palm.

They are large hands, used to violence and destruction, having to consider every action lest he wrought more without the proper care. Enough to envelop Claude’s, if he so chose.

“This is all you want?” Claude asks. “This is enough?”

“This,” Dimitri answers, “Is all I could ever ask for.”

•••❂❂❂••• 

Fodlan’s kings sleep soundly tonight.

•••❂❂❂•••

Come the sun rise, Claude wakes to a weight on his chest. Through the fog of fading sleep, he makes out to be a literal one.

Dimitri.

Dimitri is curled beside him, head half on the pillow, half on his shoulder. His arm’s landed across Claude sometime during the night. And somehow, he did not wake from it.

Without the heart to disturb him from so peaceful a rest, Claude concedes to the curious decision fate has gifted him this morning. Closes his eyes to the lull of morning songbirds, to the soft thrumming of Dimitri’s heartbeat against his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house, we love and treasure Cyril, even if we criticize his writing in the game.
> 
> Also I Did Not Know until recently that Claude and Annette had supports and they are so fucking cute. Why didn't anyone tell me.
> 
> I swear to fuck they will get on with this trip eventually. I just have an uncanny talent to make a lot of words with nothing happening, I guess.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for people bein racist.  
> i'm sleepy, so imma do lil edits later.
> 
> I keep forgetting to mention, but I'm so amused at how people grabbed onto Felix's "lovestruck fools" line. It genuinely cracks me up. I love y'all.

Morning reveals the first snow of the season. A storm had blown through the night, blanketing the grounds as far as one could see in powdery white, gleaming diamond in the sun and leaving nothing but a hush.

An arrow whistles through the air, wift and deadly as a hunting bird, before it plants itself deeply into its wooden target, sending snowflakes fluttering off its edges.

“How long were you there?”

“About half a year. It’s a beautiful country.” Shamir concedes to Claude, notching another arrow in her bow before she lets it fly.

Dropping to a crouch, she aims and fires the next in the blink of an eye, the arrow thudding into the wood beside her first shot.

Graceful, she stands, movements concise and efficient. Breath coming in silent, soft white into the cold.

“Your turn.”

Claude rolls his shoulder, lifts his bow. Aims.

Lets fly an arrow that lands in his own target, a hairs’ width from the center.

“Not bad.” Shamir remarks. “Shame you’re distracted.”

“I’m not!”

The cut of Shamir’s amethyst eyes are sharper than any dagger she may have hidden on her, a thin eyebrow raising high.

There’s nothing to look at. Nothing to be distracted by. Certainly not.

Not Dimitri, soundly and enthusiastically sparring Dedue across the yard.

Used to the cold as he is, and warmed from the exercise, he’s wearing a fitted winter tunic, the black of the leather starkly outlining the breadth of his back, the taper down to his waist—

He’s grinning, excited for the match and flushed across the cheeks. Even his nose and ears are nipped red at the ends.

Snow sprays up and around their feet as they lunge and swing, dive in and around each other. Blows connect with frightening strength, but they’re both seasoned warriors and practice partners, and know how not to injure.

She may have been calling him out, but she pauses to watch them with him all the same.

“I really am glad to see you again.” Claude tells her. “And I’m glad you got a chance to see Almyra in your travels.”

Shamir’s expression eases, almost imperceptibly. Meets his eyes for a second or two, and focuses back on the ongoing match.

“I didn’t mind when Byleth asked me to take on the gig. A job’s a job no matter what. But as far as clients go, it could be worse.”

“Were you even in Fodlan when they found you?”

“I was.”

“How _did_ they find you, anyway?”

“Nope. Not letting you onto trade secrets.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Still the same nosy brat as ever, I see.”

“As if that would ever change.”

While she doesn’t give away industry knowledge, she does amaze him all over again with her knife-throwing technique. Precise and accurate, demonstrating the particular flick of muscle that strengthens the throw, turning a parlor trick into an assassin’s.

“Then, it’s just practice.”

He tries, but doesn’t quite have the finesse of it. It's frustrating, but also a testament to her skill, and so he's impressed, too.

After a time of watching him try anyway, she excuses herself to take Cyril on a trip around Fhirdiad.

“He’s never been here before,” She says as she gathers up her things. “And he wants me to go with him around the city, for some reason.”

“…Because he cares about, and wants to spend time with you?”

“I guess.”

“You’re really fond of that kid, aren’t you?”

She levels a sharp, faceted gaze at him, but doesn’t answer, which for her, is answer enough. He waves her off, and continues practice on his own.

The weight of the bow, the tension of the string as he pulls, is all wonderfully familiar. Fingers humming even through his gloves, he takes a slow, measured breath, the muscles in his back flexing taut. With every soaring arrow, he feels a little more free, a little more at ease.

Winter had come almost overnight, the cold nibbling along his ears and biting harder at his nose. Unable to leave them be until the season proper, creeping down his neck under the collar and whispering through the wool-lined jacket.

But there are worse things than a little discomfort. It isn’t a bad thing.

When he does take a rest, lowering the weapon and relaxing his shoulders, he looks over again towards Dimitri.

Alone, now, he’s still at it, lance swinging with ease and power both impressive and terrifying. Focused, confident.

Each strike would be fatal to anyone in its way. Even from here, he can hear the way the wind parts for them.

"Where'd Dedue go?" He asks when Dimitri breaks from stance for a rest.

Watching his relaxed approach, Dimitri swipes a hand over his temple.

"He returned to work."

"Ah."

"I saw your practices," Dimitri praises, "Your marksmanship hasn't dulled."

"I should hope not." Claude laughs. "It's what kept me alive."

"Then may it never waver."

"May I never need to use it as such again."

Pausing to reflect on this, Dimitri nods.

"Indeed."

Not long afterwards, they leave the training grounds together.

 _“A king who leads a war from the back is no king at all, and no fighter._ ” One of the soldiers had warned Claude on their way to Fhirdiad, and several others had agreed with her.

But Dimitri’s obvious war wounds, the power he exudes, is enough to convince them. 

Still, they eye him with a wary sort of curiosity as they pass them along the grounds. They bow as respectfully to him as they do Claude, even though he doesn’t speak their language. They subtly make room for the first king and his husband on their way towards the residential manor, edging around him as though waiting for a strike at any moment. What Felix had said rings in his ear.

_She knows another predator when she sees one._

So far, it seems they respect Dimtiri; but right away, their reaction to him is much different than it had been towards Felix.

Hopefully, he is making too much of it.

•••❂❂❂•••

The snow had brought in a fresh wave of cold, punctuated now by Claude sneezing viciously from within the closet.

"Yeesh," He sniffs, while Dimitri silently raises from his chair in order to throw more wood chips into the fireplace. "Faerghus winters are something else. And it’s not even winter! Remind me why I didn’t talk you into going to Almyra for half the year. Should have made it part of the marriage negotiation."

Despite his complaining, Dimitri is smiling as he watches articles of clothing being tossed from the door, onto the bench beside the closet.

“By the way, don’t tell Ingrid I didn’t pack until tonight. She’d lecture me until I was gray.”

“I won’t.”

“How did _you_ get packed so fast?” Claude emerges in order to give him a properly indignant huff, hands squared on his hips.

“I did it a week ago.”

“While I was away, huh? Sneaky.”

Claude shakes his head before disappearing back into the depths of their wardrobe.

Wordlessly, Dimitri sets about carefully picking up the clothing Claude’s selected, folding each to carefully pack them away into his open trunk.

“Hey, by the way, what are these?”

“What are what?”

Claude appears again, hands full with a thick, hooded cloak, lined with fur and ringed with delicate, rich embroidery about the collar and hems. Several dark leather tunics with long sleeves are slung over his arm, along with another heavy coat.

“I don’t recognize them, but they’re not yours, are they? They look too…well, they look too small. I noticed them a while ago, but I kept forgetting to ask.”

At first, Dimitri says nothing. Then, busies himself with folding more clothes.

“They’re yours.”

“Eh? They’re nice, but I swear they’re not. I didn’t bring anything like this…wait, are you packing my things _for_ me?”

Dimitri clears his throat as he tucks another shirt away.

“I wasn’t sure you had enough, if any, winter clothes warm enough to stand up to Fhirdiad winters, much less so if we did go north for any reason. So I…I had them made for you.”

Claude stares.

Sheepish, Dimitri’s eye flickers to Claude, and then back to his task.

As the seconds drag on, a flush rises to his face.

“If you don’t like them, maybe Ashe will have them when he comes back. He’s about your size.”

“No. No way.” Claude announces. “Oh, no _way_ am I giving these up.”

Setting them down atop the dresser, he’s suddenly at Dimitri’s side, scooping his face up between his hands and beaming.

“You serious, you thoughtful bastard? You think I’d give away such nice gifts from my husband? Do you think I’m that much of an ingrate?”

…Claude has made a similar gesture with Nylah, and suddenly Dimitri’s not so sure how he feels about it.

“No, no, of course not…”

“But why didn’t you say anything before now?” Claude askes, palms still cupping Dimitri’s cheeks, barring him from hiding away with a turn of his head. “Not even a, _hey idiot, none of your clothes are warm enough for the bullshit that is Faerghus weather, so I got you some_?”

“I would never say that to you!”

“No, of course you wouldn’t.”

“They were,” Dimitri’s cheeks bloom from pink carnation to red rose. “They were…they were meant to be a birthday present.”

Claude tilts his head. “But I went to Daphnel with Hilda for my— _oh.”_

“And, it was in the middle of summer, after all.” Dimitri’s shy blue looks at everything that isn’t green, voice failing. “When I had more time to think about it, it seemed…like an odd time for winter clothes, so I just. I had them put away.”

Then he’s silent, lowering his eyes. Almost in shame, as though he’s said too much, like a child admitting a wrong.

“Oh, _Dimitri._ ” Claude laughs, kind as can be, running his thumbs over the tops of Dimitri’s cheeks. “That’s _adorable._ ”

“Don’t make fun of me!”

“I’m not! I’m _not!_ I promise. Oh come on, look at me!”

He ducks down, trying to catch Dimitri’s eye, who only shyly directs it away wherever he tries to find it. Finally, deciding enough is enough, he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. He laughs delightedly when, as expected, the surprise does it. Blue, surrounded by shocking white, Dimitri’s stumbling back and quickly readjusting his footing to keep them upright—Dimitri’s hands on his waist to steady him—

He bluffs through it, letting loose another laugh.

“It was very thoughtful, Dimitri. By contrast, I was terribly thought- _less_ , wasn’t I? I didn’t even think to ask if you’d had any plans or anything for me.”

“Plans, no,” Dimitri murmurs. Hushed. Doing as what Claude wanted, and meeting his eye. Hesitating, lips parted, just enough to draw all the breath from Claude’s lungs, leaving his chest thudding dry. So very empty, so very full. “Just…well, what more would you want than a few days with Hilda? To whatever mischief you two get up to together.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t mind a few days getting into mischief with you, hmm?”

Dimitri’s brows tilt. Unsure, shy, and maybe a little sad.

“Please,” He breathes, “Don’t mock me.”

Locks of fine, disheveled blonde curl over his fingers, and absentmindedly, Claude brushes them back, pushes a few behind his ear.

“What, exactly, am I teasing you about?”

“…You are cruel, Claude von Riegan.”

“That’s Claude von Riegan-Blaiddyd, to be exact.”

It makes him smile, small and slight. Wondrous, Claude swipes his thumb to move aside yet another lock of spun gold silk, watching with rapt attention as Dimitri’s lashes flutter.

Then, slowly, he draws his hands down, releasing Dimitri and settling back on his heels, only for them to both realize he’s still held by the waist.

Quickly, Dimitri snatches his hands back, and Claude laughs, pats him on the shoulder, and turns away to finish packing.

“Anyway. Totally taking these with us.”

Meanwhile, Dimitri watches him. Slowly, his hands flex, curl, and stay faithfully by his sides, although they beg to do something very much different.

•••❂❂❂•••

After that is done, they have dinner. And after that, they find themselves in their sitting room, each contending with their own struggles.

Where exactly, Claude wonders, had Dimitri had gotten the notion to try something as delicate as crochet when he regularly broke weapons of war barehanded?

Still, it keeps him occupied for a while. A few stitches catch as they’re supposed to, before he either breaks the needle or misses the next few. He lets out a gentle huff of frustration once in a while, but keeps at it.

Claude sits across the table from him, staring down at the scattered parts of the watch that are still perplexing him.

“It’s a _watch_ ,” He grouses, dragging his hands down his face. “Why is this so complicated?”

“Why persist at it, if it frustrates you so?”

“Look who’s talking.” Claude teases.

Shyly, Dimitri shrugs. “I’m truly not meant for delicate work like this. But I wanted to try. It’s meant to be a soothing hobby…”

“I dunno if it’s doing anything for you, in that respect.”

“Ah…” Coloring, Dimitri admits, “Well. Mercedes tried her best to teach me, as did Flayn. So, I cannot give up easily. And you? Why struggle with that thing?”

“Eh. I’m just stubborn.”

Minutes pass in mutual, delicate reverie. Only until Claude’s mind begins to churn again, working as his hands do with pieces coming together between his fingers.

"Ever tried meditating?"

Without raising his head, he can feel Dimitri’s perplexion.

"I haven't."

"Mm. Not surprised. It’s a rare thing in Fodlan.”

"Have you?"

"Every morning."

“…Every morning? Since when?"

"Since I was a kid."

Claude's eyes stay down, stay calm, despite the blood racing from face to fingertips, while he fights the urge to bounce his leg.

"...I had no idea." Dimitri sounds sheepish. "I've never seen you do it."

_There's a reason for that._

"It's called _morning_ meditation. I'm usually done by the time you wake up."

"Ah...I see."

Finally, Claude lifts his gaze, catching Dimitri's blue.

"...Would you want to try?"

He waits. For what? Laughter, for mockery, derision.

Instead, Dimitri tilts his head in thought.

"I don't see why not."

He smiles.

He should have known. Of course. But… 

_Old habits._

"Come on, then."

“I—right now?”

“Why not?”

Abandoning the insufferable mess of the table for a seat on the nearby sofa, Claude settles himself, easily cross-legged, patting the cushion for Dimitri to follow his example. He does, folding in his leg and turning towards Claude, so they face each other.

"If your routine is to meditate in the morning, doesn't that mean you've done it already?"

"Normally, yes. But this morning, you see, I woke up with a lion on top of me."

Dimitri's cheeks color as Claude's grin widens.

"Please, I apologized for that! It was unintentional, you have my word! I didn't mean to—"

Raising a hand between his laughter and Dimitri's mortification, he swears, "It's okay, Dimitri. I know."

"You could have woken me."

"Ah, I could have. But I didn't. Not when you were sleeping _so_ very prettily."

Dimitri's cheeks, somehow, go redder, and he loses the strength to face Claude's outright amusement, turning to the safety of the floor beside them.

"Now, your turn. Your hands, please."

Claude reaches for Dimitri's hands. Takes them, gently, guiding him to relax them in his palms.

“I’ll walk you through it. Here, relax your shoulders, loosen your back—yeah, there you go.”

“This is a technique for…relaxation, yes?”

“In a nutshell. It’s a little different for everyone. There are different techniques and focuses. What works for me might not do it for you, but we can always find something that you like better, if you want. Not saying it will be some magic fix for all that ails you, but… maybe you'll get something out of it.”

“And what do you use it for?”

Claude smiles at their joined hands.

“It grounds me. Helps center me back to zero. It’s nice to just _be_ for a little while, without all the outside noise..”

When he traces a thumb over Dimitri’s palm, down his lifeline, he adds, quietly, “It gives me room for some perspective.”

Hilda had been the first person Claude had ever openly talked about it with, and the first time he’d invited someone to try. She didn’t adopt the habit for good, but she enjoyed the occasional session with him. Calling it calming, _like a cup of tea_ , even if it had made him little more than nervous the first few times.

Although as common as kohl in Almyra, meditating is a foreign enough practice to be an almost dead giveaway in Fodlan. And when one was from outside its stubborn borders, one had to be very careful as to what to reveal about oneself.

Old habits, old habits, old habits. But Dimitri simply listens to his instructions.

“Let yourself feel, don’t try to fight it. It may be uncomfortable at first, but just let the emotions be what they are. Mind your breathing.”

Not that Dimitri has ever given him any indication that his prejudices ran as deep as most would expect of a conservative Fodlan native. Then again, Dimitri is not nearly as traditional as most expect, once he opens his mouth.

“Be aware of the way you’re sitting; keep your shoulders relaxed. If it helps, focus on the way I’m touching your hand.”

Dimitri’s hands are larger than his, still laying palm-up over them while Claude continues tracing soft patterns with his thumbs over their lines.

“You’re frowning, dear husband. Deep, slow breaths, now.”

He had watched Dimitri defend Dedue many, many times in the months since he’s been here. Fought for the restoration of Duscur to be discussed among all the other important Kingdom matters, because he believes it to _be_ an important Kingdom matter.

He’d tried so hard to convince the true conservatives of his court that Almyra is a worthy ally, that his Almyran suitor is worthy of his noble Blaiddyd bloodline.

“ _A Blaiddyd married a Riegan before, many generations back._ ” He had argued, incensed, _“Not that it should matter. Claude is a competent leader, who holds the trust of many of the lords who know him, especially those of the former Alliance. What has he to prove?”_

_“We mean no offense, Your Majesty, we simply meant—”_

_“I_ know _what you meant.” Dimitri had snarled, and turned away, disgusted._

Although he is the one guiding Dimitri through reflection and mindfulness, Claude is watching; entranced, at the golden flicker of his lashes, his hair, in the waning dregs of sun. If he closes his eyes, as he briefly does, he can smell Dimitri’s wild, subtle scent, incense that he wishes would burn out into the air, that it may settle into every fiber he ever wears against his skin; wants to breathe it in, let it curl sweet into his lungs.

 _What tricks are you using on me, Dimitri?_ He wonders, even as his chest so painfully, wonderfully beats, beats, beats, overly conscious of the broken, mended, scarred hands that sit in his own. Belonging to a broken man on the mend, scars cauterized in silver mercury.

_Are you my downfall?_

As much as he has always held himself away, drawn tight the curtains and sewn them shut tight, Claude finds himself peeking through. Leaning forward to see the moonlight beyond them, when he has always lived for the sun, close enough that he can feel Dimitri’s breath on his cheeks.

And he is falling into blue.

The crochet needles are forgotten on the table, next to useless in Dimitri’s clumsy hands, and yet—

—He is unraveling.

•••❂❂❂•••

“How do you feel?”

Dimitri’s eye goes wide, when he opens it to find Claude’s green waiting for him. Green, little glints of gold in the shining jade of a stone that should really be more beloved in Fodlan, for its beauty and its depths. Every bit as precious as lapis lazuli, in his opinion.

“…Calmer. I think.” He admits.

Claude’s hands are warm, where they support his, between their folded knees. Warm, in the chambers that they share, that he had called a home.

He smiles, and so does Claude.

“Yeah? You think you might wanna do it again?”

“I see the appeal.” Dimitri admits, heart flickering like wings against his lungs when Claude’s hands curl around his. Smaller, perhaps, but no less strong. Protective, as if he is something _worth_ protecting. Worth holding on to. “So…yes.”

Although he is not sure why, Claude seems pleased, the white of teeth making it through a wider smile.

“Okay. Sounds good. With practice, it’ll get easier, too.”

“I believe you.”

The afternoon draws the hours slow, the shadows long and soft.

“We leave for old Adrestria tomorrow.” Claude reminds him. “You ready?”

Dimitri sees challenge in his smirk, play in his eyes.

“Yes.” He says, meeting both with his own. “I’m sure there will be obstacles along the way, but…I believe we will overcome them.”

“We can do it.” Claude agrees.

“We must.”

“And we will.”

•••❂❂❂•••

Many of the Almyran soldiers hadn’t seen snow before. It seldom snows in the country, and only if one were to go very deep, very high into the mountains; most hail from the sun drenched towns, along the edges of deserts and savannas.

Fortunately, not much had survived, and there’s only patches of powder white left by morning. They are still quietly marveling at it, as the kings emerge from the city gates to greet them.

Dozens of eyes immediately find Dimitri. For some, it’s their first glimpse of the Fodlan-born royal. Murmuring quietly amongst themselves, they make way for both as they inspect the caravan’s wagons and goods.

“You weren’t exaggerating, for once,” Dimitri marvels, “There really _is_ a lot.”

“What do you mean ‘for once’?” Claude huffs.

“You…add flourish.”

Baran, the most senior commanding officer of the Almyran company, swiftly arrives to introduce themselves to Dimitri and his retinue in careful, halting Fodlan as they shake hands. White and gray fleck their dark, braided hair, jeweled blue eyes stern but kind. Bright armor dented, repaired, maintained, an obviously favored old scimitar hanging at their waist.

“How was the journey here?” Ingrid asks politely. “Hopefully, you have enjoyed your time in Fhirdiad?”

They hesitate, comprehension failing, and Claude steps in.

“I got you,” He claps a hand to Ingrid’s shoulder with a good-natured laugh, turns to Baran—

And Dimitri realizes that he’s heard Almyran, but he’s never heard _Claude_ speak it. Until now.

_How?_ He knew. He knew, of course he knows Claude is fluent in both. But it is one thing to know, and another to _hear—_

“Baran thinks the landscapes are beautiful, but, as it goes for all of us Almyrans, finds the cold _awful._ ”

“Ah,” Ingrid says sympathetically. “Yes, the cold is certainly setting in. But these supplies have come just in time, for those who need it most.”

“That they have,” Claude agrees. “We have not a moment to waste.”

Soon after, they depart, after long-lasting farewells.

“Be well,” Ingrid holds them both, an arm around each pair of shoulders. “And be safe.”

“Of course. We’ve got it covered,” Claude assures her, pressing a brief kiss to her blonde hair. “Made sure of, thanks to you, our guardian angel.”

“Oh, stop.”

“And don’t mess with my papers again while I’m gone!”

“We’ll see.”

“Ugh. Dedue, _watch her._ ”

“I will watch, but I cannot promise that I’m persuasive enough to stop her.”

“Well. Just make sure the city doesn’t burn down.”

“That, I can do with greater ease.”

•••❂❂❂•••

A couple of days is all it takes for the tall spires of Garreg Mach's silhouette to appear through the morning fog. It clears by midday, when they arrive outside the town's gates. The caravan stays on its outskirts, as the kings and their escorts make their way to the monastery.

Byleth is ready with an enthusiastic greeting in the courtyard, stopping short when they catch sight of Cyril and Shamir.

"…Oh, dammit."

"Don't worry," Shamir reports, "Seteth covered you. As ever."

They have the grace to look a little embarrassed, quickly hiding themselves within the depths of Dimitri’s embrace. As always, it’s prolonged and obviously loving, affectionate, Byleth humming contentedly while the pair gently sways.

"Woah."

"Oh, they're always like that." Claude tells Cyril dryly, propping an elbow up on his shoulder. Dramatically sighing, he lays a hand over his heart. "It's like I'm not even here anymore. Do you see how he wounds me so?"

"Maybe if you paid more attention and didn't lose him all the time, he'd like you as much as he likes Byleth." Cyril offers helpfully.

“… _Wow."_

Byleth snorts into Dimitri's chest.

"What? What'd I say?"

"Nothing but the truth, Cyril." Shamir assures him.

"Dimitri. _Dimitri Alexandre Riegan-Blaiddyd._ Are you _laughing at me?_ "

“No,” Dimitri chokes, shoulders shaking while he turns away, Byleth in tow. “No, of course not—”

“... _Wow._ ”

•••❂❂❂•••

Only recently has the Officers Academy opened its doors for classes again. Despite it all being one country now, the houses remain separated by the original territories.

"Maybe we'll change it at some point." Byleth remarks lightly. "But for now, it'll do."

Students quietly marvel at the arrival of their kings from afar, mystified at the sight of them walking along with the archbishop and their advisor. Flayn appears, buoyantly cheerful, winding her arms around Byleth’s middle. They return the embrace, lovingly stroking her hair, before she joins them.

As they walk, Byleth's eyes glitter with amusement, their robes swaying with every graceful step. “We didn’t say anything, but the students could tell we were getting ready for some special guests. I believe there are some bets made on who they would be.”

“Quite a frivolous waste of their time.” Seteth remarks, and Byleth sees his sternness with quiet affection.

“Better they have time to waste gossiping than planning for battle.”

With a thoughtful pause, Seteth concedes, “You are right. I suppose it is a blessing, in its own way.”

Discussion of the revival of Fort Boreas is first. In the chamber that had been their war room not so long ago, they go over the map and the newest figures of how many soldiers where, when which supplies would arrive. Afterwards, Seteth excuses himself for a meeting with a few of the local diocese, promising to find them again later on.

“Oh, that was positively _never ending_ ,” Flayn laments, and takes Dimitri’s hand in her gentle grasp. “Come with me, Dimitri! There is an apple tree still blooming in the yard with the most _delectable_ fruit, and I require your aid in relieving it of its glorious boon.”

“Is that code for you being too short to reach it?”

“Oh, hush!” Flayn pouts at Claude before pulling Dimitri from the room, while he obediently follows her lead.

“She’s right, though.” Byleth yawns, stretching their arms overhead as they stand.

“About the meeting, or the apple tree?”

“Mm. Both, actually. Come with me, little deer.”

Sunlight falls upon the stone floor in golden steps between columns as they make their way across the long plaza. Each pass a nostalgic glance across the well kept grass, the now-manicured shrubs, the looming doors of the house classrooms.

“You two sure got the academy back up and running real quick.”

“It’s only the second year.” Shadows fall beneath Byleth’s eyelashes, curving rosy blue over their cheek. “But I think it’s good to see life here again. Besides soldiers and refugees and orphans, that is.”

“It’s lively.” Claude admits, noting the students as they climb the stairs. “…They’re so young. Crazy to think that was us, once upon a time.”

“Hopefully, they stay that way.” For the lightness of their tone, Byleth’s words fall heavy. “No more war, little deer.”

For a moment, the grief shrouds them, thin and silky sheer. It twists sharp in his heart, to see a glimpse of such profound sadness in even the mighty Byleth. Even if it’s just for an instant, before it slips away, their face back to its typical enigma.

“No more war.”

•••❂❂❂•••

While Byleth reluctantly sits themselves at their office desk, the size comparable to a mattress, as is the stack of work atop it, Claude sits leisurely on a well-worn leather chair.

“Hard to get used to the sight of you actually sitting up at a _desk_. Willingly. I still remember how you’d sit on a table or the windowsill during lectures.”

“Yeah, well.” Byleth says nonchalantly, “Seteth gets very fussy if I don’t.”

“I bet he does. Hey, did you talk him into spending a few days with us on the road, yet?”

“Not quite. But I have until tomorrow morning, don’t I? You got lucky with Dimitri. He lets you do pretty much what you please, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, comparing him to a husband, now? Careful, Teach, or people will start to talk—yikes, _that’s_ a look.”

Glaring, Byleth says nothing, but reaches for one of the apricots on a basket at the corner of their desk.

“Plus, come on. Give him some credit. Dimitri’s not _that_ much of a pushover.”

Mouth full, Byleth looks up at him.

“…True.”

“Say, speaking of talking. And rumors, and whatnot.”

“Yeah?”

“I know this is, y’know, old old news and all. But I was just wondering something. So, like you know how you visited on your last birthday?”

A nod.

“Did you know that there was some _heavy_ gossip of you and Dimitri having an affair?”

“That’s not new.” Byleth takes another bite. “Ever since the war ended, people have been way too invested in what Dimitri and I do and don’t do with each other.”

“Well, no, but also yes. The whole thing about you sleeping in his room,” Claude drawls carefully, lifting himself to his feet and casually lifting a little figurine off the table to inspect. “He said nothing happened. And, for what it’s worth, I don’t doubt him. I don’t. And it doesn’t matter. It _really_ doesn’t. Like, _super_ does not matter, and I told him as such.”

Byleth sets down their work and folds their hands on the desk, watching the Almyran prince-turned Fodlan king meander about in their office. Babbling, for all his silver tongue is worth.

“Still, rumors are…yanno, rumors, but as ridiculous as they can be, they come from _somewhere.”_ Rubbing his chin, Claude clears his throat before continuing, “Again, not that I think either of you are liars, and I don’t _actually_ think you’re involved, but. I wouldn’t mind hearing your side of the affair— _story._ Your side of the _story. Wow,_ awkward slip of the tongue, there. Or, brilliant wordplay.”

Silently, Byleth reaches for another paper, scratching away with their pen, halfway through melting some wax for a seal as he goes on to say, “Either way. You can’t help me for being curious. It’s not something that’s _really_ bothering me, and actually, why am I even bringing this up? Great question, Teach, I see it on your face, but you see the thing is—what’s this?”

Byleth flaps a parchment at him, which he takes between his hands, holds up, and reads,

**_28th of Wyvern Moon, Year 119X,_ **

_I, Archbishop Byleth Eisner, leader of the Central Church of Seiros of Fodlan, do so solemnly declare and promise that I have never intimately known King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd’s royal cock._

Byleth leans their cheek in their palm and gazes at him from across the desk.

“…You’re making fun of me.”

Byleth smiles.

“You’re _making fun_ of me?!”

“Haha. Yeah.”

“…You used the official Church letterhead and seal for this.”

“I sure did.”

“Glad this is funny to you, because I had to work some _serious_ damage control—”

“ _Oh,”_ Byleth rises abruptly from their seat, clutching their hands to their chest. “My name is Claude von Riegan-Blaiddyd, and I absolutely _don’t care_ about my husband’s lovers, even though I am, apparently, obsessed with finding out the truth of it!”

“I—I wouldn’t say _obsessed_ —”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter to me! And yet, I _must_ know!” They lift the back of their hand to their head, swaying melodramatically. “It is _vital_ for me to know if he has so sinfully known the most pious of us all!”

“You and I both know you are _far_ from pious.”

“And I throw stones in glass houses, too!”

“Okay, Teach.”

“Mine most fragile heart cannot bear the thought of my fair Dimitri, having been sullied so! Poor maiden is he, to fall prey to that dastardly archbishop!”

“You’re being very rude, you know.”

“Oh, how I long to finally consummate our marriage, that he might know the secret feelings of my tender heart. Woe is _me_ , that he won’t so much as grace me with a kiss!”

“Hmph. Didn’t know you started teaching theater here, too. Wait, hang on, what are you implying—”

Byleth sighs, long and deep, before swooning into Claude’s arms, tilting their head back and closing their eyes in what seems to be tragic heartbreak.

“How I yearn for him so! In body and in soul, but curses! The words! They will not come, not when I summon them, even though I normally _don’t know how to shut my blasted mouth!_ ”

“I’m going to drop you.”

“Anyway,” Byleth whisks their head up to smile at him. “That’s what you sound like.”

Claude makes a noise of clear disgust, righting Byleth back onto their feet.

“I do _not._ ”

“You do. At least a little bit.”

“Absolutely not. No way. Complete and utter defamation, By, and I, for one, am ashamed on your behalf. This is pure fiction you’re spewing.”

Byleth giggles. _Giggles_. Giggles, when Claude has never heard them do so before, and yet lo and behold, they bestow one upon him today, as they sit on the edge of their desk, heels swinging just off the floor while they grin fondly at him.

“No wonder they call you a demon.”

“That’s _Ashen Demon_ to you.”

As apparent peace offering, they push over the basket of apricots over towards him, beaming when he begrudgingly takes one.

“What?” He sulks, tearing out the pit.

“Dimitri looks better. _You_ look better.”

Suspicious, he narrows his eyes at them, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing slowly.

“I’m not making fun of you this time.” They promise, adoring and gentle. “Though I do think it is very silly that you pretend not to notice. Or to know.”

“And. _What_ am I pretending, Teach?” Claude croons.

Byleth smiles, and says nothing else of it.

•••❂❂❂•••

“To Gaspard, and no further.”

“That’s barely two days’ journey. To Fodlan’s Fangs _._ At _least._ ”

“Absolutely not.”

Flayn holds her breath, as her eyes dart between Seteth and Byleth. The former, weary and stern; the latter, playful and unyielding.

“…You can come along, if you like.”

“How generous an offer.” Seteth replies dryly, and Flayn straightens up in her seat, sparkling like morning dew.

“May I come along as well?!” She pleads. “Think of all the fruit we may happen upon along the way! How else will I procure them from the trees if not for King Dimitri’s stature?”

“There are plenty of fruits at the market, Flayn.” Seteth sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“But they won’t be hand-picked by the king himself.” Byleth points out smoothly. “Isn’t that a wonderful blessing for your beloved sister?”

“You won’t let up, will you?”

“It would look good for the Church,” Byleth reasons, “To have us with the kings, giving our blessings while they deliver aid to the less fortunate. And wouldn’t it be nice to put down the paperwork and _do_ some good?”

“Our work is vital to ensuring we can do good at _all_.”

“Did you hear how part of their motivation in this trip is to _see_ the people they are leading? Hear their words for themselves? Doesn’t that sound like a worthy use of time?”

Seteth’s mouth tightens, and Byleth’s smile widens, knowing they have one hook in.

Claude joins in on their behalf, urging, “Come on, it’ll do the archbishop some good to get out of this stuffy monastery. They’re like a caged bird, Seteth. And Dimitri has been _so_ looking forward to spending some time with them. I would _hate_ to break to him that tonight and tomorrow morning is all they have.”

He seems to grow only more and more weary as they continue on, rubbing his temples, at which they exchange mischievous, victorious secret grins.

“…To the checkpoint at Ochs. And then we turn back.”

Byleth and Claude high five while Flayn cheers.

“Shall we go tell Dimitri the splendid news?” Claude offers, and she springs from her seat.

“Yes! Let’s go find him!”

She takes his arm and urges him towards the door.

“…Thank you, Seteth.” Claude hears Byleth’s voice, fond and soft.

When he looks over his shoulder, he sees their hand reach to brush a lock of hair back from his furrowed brow. Hesitate, and then draw back, turn away, before he notices.

•••❂❂❂•••

Of course, Dimitri is thrilled to have Byleth along, even if he hides it by turning his face away, pretending to be interested in the same painting that has hung in this particular hallway since they were students.

When they ride out the following morning, Byleth is beside him on their mount, a dappled gray horse that Flayn had lovingly named _Snowy_.

“Not the most dignified name for the archbishop’s horse,” Seteth says without any bite, and with a smile, “But she was rather insistent.”

“It’s perfect.” Byleth says.

Wanting to be fearless, Flayn demands Claude introduce her to the Almyran soldiers, even if, as they approach, she ends up using him as less of a guide and more a shield, halfway hidden behind his back while she clutches at his jacket. They watch her peek out at them, amused, while Claude explains her presence along with the archbishop and their advisor.

“They are not so frightening.” Flayn primly reports as she climbs up to Byleth’s saddle with them.

“Glad to hear it.”

Two days take them to Gaspard, where a distant cousin had taken over for its lord some years ago. The situation isn’t as terrible as they feared there, and they are able to make casual ties to the head of the family before moving on.

The next, Byleth makes more quills as they sit by the river with Dimitri, as he watches Claude joke around with a couple of the Almyrans.

The language is completely foreign to him, unlike the smattering of Sreng’s words that most northern Faerghans become accustomed to. The more of it he hears, the sweeter upon his ears.

“I don’t know anything about Almyran.”

He says it as if that were something new.

“And not all that much about Almyra itself.”

“No one expects you to.” Byleth muses, wrapping a length of cord around a pen nib.

“I ought to.” Dimitri says, “They are our neighbors.”

“There is time to learn.” They reply kindly. “If anything, _this_ is the perfect time.”

“…My husband is Almyran.”

Byleth pauses their work to glance up at him.

“Yes,” They acknowledge, “He is.”

“…I don’t suppose you know any Almyran yourself?”

“…How would I know Almyran, Dimitri?”

“You’re well traveled. And full of surprises.”

“Huh. That’s a compliment, I guess. But no, I don’t know anything about Almyran. Aside from a handful of mercenaries I’ve run with like, fifteen years ago, but I don’t think that really counts.”

Their itinerary soon takes them into old Adrestrian territory, and outside the borders of the former Kingdom, a different beast greets them. 

The people are distrustful and suspicious; of the kings, the archbishop, the unknown army carrying Almyra’s banners.

“Tyrants.” A villager grumbles, while another hisses and spits at the ground in disgust.

“Lovely.” Claude remarks, while beside him, Dimitri frowns.

“They have a right to be angry.” He judges, brow tightened. “It is as you have warned me. The people suffer, and in their eyes I have ignored them.”

Before he can become too sullen, Claude reminds him, “That’s what we’re here to fix. Don’t give up before we start.”

Still, as they set up makeshift relief centers, it doesn’t go easily. Even when offered aid, citizens remain wary, and it takes longer than they’d like to earn the trust to even provide it.

Some huff at the charity as pity, while others directy scorn the Almyrans' presence at all.

“The king marries an Almyran, and now we’ve gotta to be overrun with these violent bastards?”

Byleth’s hands briefly pause, where they’re wringing out a cloth. Beside them, Seteth frowns, catching their displeased eye.

They bring the hot water and clean rags across the camp, where healers are preparing medications and salves for coughing and wheezing patients. Scarcely have they pulled back the tent flap than they overhear another conversation.

“I don’t care if his mother’s a Riegan. You know how dirty Almyran blood runs.” The man hacks into a sullied rag, adding, “We all know Blaiddyd’s a madman anyway. Maybe those animals deserve each other, then.”

Byleth begins to turn, before Seteth’s hand firmly wraps around their shoulder to guide them inside.

“Let them prattle.” He soothes. “Our work is more important.”

“If Dimitri heard them insult Claude like that,” Byleth remarks airily, “He’d wring their neck.”

Talk like that is everywhere, seeping into cracked dirt. Sullying clean air with its dark breaths.

Nonetheless, Flayn continues to run herself ragged, her kind heart unable to bear the sight of so many desperate. Healing and aiding where she can, passing out bowls of food from massive cook pots and repairing clothes.

“You are straining yourself.” Seteth warns when she drops her head into his lap at the end of each day. Byleth flops on his shoulder from his other side with a soft groan, and both are fast asleep before long.

“My, my. Quite the nice little family you’ve got there.” Claude teases, to which Seteth only offers a vaguely disapproving noise.

Still, Flayn finds plenty of energy the following night, when the Almyrans produce instruments, and begin to dance and sing around a cooking fire that they build to a blazing bonfire. The sounds and beats are unfamiliar to Fodlan ears, but Claude bolts from his seat to join them within the first few notes.

Long, sweeping motions and quick footwork weave with fluid limbs and controlled twists of the torso. They whoop and holler, jumping and turning freely with the energetic thrumming of the music, throwing back their heads and howling with joy. Swaying hips, outstretched arms, mesmerizing spins—no wonder Flayn, and many of the baffled Fodlan natives, are enthralled, even as they keep to the peripherals.

“Come on!” Claude reaches for Dimitri’s hands, who startles and draws them back, staying stubbornly seated.

“I— have no idea how to dance like that.” He protests.

“Why have I heard that one before?” He says, with a mischievous glint in his eye. “But, fine! I’ll let you off the hook. For _now._ Teach, you’re up!”

Byleth obliges in Dimitri’s place, taking Claude’s outstretched hand as he leads them, among the wild cheers of the crowd.

He eases them into it, guiding while they follow his movements, undaunted by their excited audience. Before long, they are moving in step with him to the thriving music, turning in and out and around him, the ends of their cloak spinning around their legs, arms curving in water’s flow all the way down to their fingertips. There’s a smile on Byleth’s lips while Claude laughs before dipping them scandalously low to the ground, their arms around his neck.

But it’s all part of the play, and once they right themselves, they laugh too, patting his cheek.

“Simply delightful!” Flayn squeaks, eyes sparkling. “May I join?!”

The _no_ is already on the tip of his tongue, but when she beams up at him, Seteth only lets out a sigh.

“Just stay within sight, and with someone you know.”

“Haven’t _you_ softened up?” Byleth teases when they come to retrieve Flayn, who eagerly hops to her feet and takes their hands.

•••❂❂❂•••

As promised, Claude continues to tell Dimitri stories of his time at the Academy, such as when he and Lysithea accidentally ended up locked in the library after hours, trying to evade curfew to study longer. He’d been fine and dandy, but she’d cried, but _not because of the dark_ , as she insisted. Eventually, he’d tried to pick the lock, and accidentally broken it instead, and they had to bolt away from the alerted guards patrolling the hall.

“I remember that! They thought someone was trying to steal precious materials!”

“Yeah, nope, that was just us trying not to get caught.”

There’s the story of Raphael having an arm wrestling contest in one of the bawdier taverns in town. He’d _won_ , and the barkeep had rewarded them all with drinks, as had a couple of the less sober spectators. At the time, it had been exciting, but as it turned out, three massive steins of ale apiece was too much for a few inexperienced drinkers. 

Three sheets to the wind, they’d stumbled back towards the monastery, drinking as much water as their bellies could handle, and they’d had to dunk themselves in the river to disguise the smell of the beer. Caspar had almost puked on the way back. Twice.

“And you got away with that?”

“Just barely.”

They make their way through roads, from territory to territory. Alarmed townsfolk scurry away from the army, and especially shy away from the foreign Almyran armor, the banners they don’t recognize. It takes time to earn their trust long enough to assure them that the kings are there to give out bread and supplies, not to conquer.

Some days, the kings greet local lords and church leaders. Between royal power and Claude’s skillful words, they grudgingly agree to the blanket terms the Kingdom desires to set in place for their newly acquired vassal states.

It’d been one of their recent triumphs. Somehow, Claude had helped break the stalemate between Dimitri and the board of counselors to find a delicate balance that pleases them all. It involves a detailing of base taxes, governance ordinances, penalties, travel and border policies…

Drafting it had been an exercise of compromises and many late nights, but it’d been done. Months of revisions and arguments had finally seen it approved and finalized mere days before he’d left for the border with Felix.

(And they had tried to undo much of it when he’d been gone, thinking Dimitri easier to contend with alone.)

With any luck, it will help to ease confusion and therefore the chaos that runs like wind through the Empire’s old lands. As Claude had predicted, it’s much easier to convince them in person, more direct. Leaves less room for sliding from view, when they are before both of their monarchs’ eyes.

When not arguing for compliance, they’re helping the soldiers hand out provisions to wary citizens of the former Empire, willing to talk to them freely. Without pretense, and at leisure.

Once they do, many tell stories of skirmishes between feuding lords, or corrupt officials that drove them from their homes in desperation. Infighting continues between smaller territories, trying to scrape out more for themselves among the collapsed powers of the former great families of the glorious Adrestrian Empire.

Every night, the soldiers practice. The Almyrans continue on their own, sparring and wrestling, their weapons clanging deep into the night. Finally, a soldier approaches Byleth, asking them to join in. Having heard that their archbishop is a fearsome warrior, they want to test their mettle for themselves.

“You don’t have to.” Seteth assures them, before Byleth blinks, yawns behind their hand, and slides smoothly from their seat, striding confidently towards the group of waiting soldiers.

Worried, as he ever is, he watches. Flayn pats his arm assuringly.

Byleth may not have their open passion for it, but the art of swordplay and combat is worked into every fibre of them, and when their first challenger approaches them with an ornate spear, decorative chains hanging from its wide blade, they shift to fighting stance with riverstone-smooth grace.

All goes quiet but for the quiet clinking of their gear, their armor. Boots grind softly into the earth, while the entire camp seems to hold its breath.

And then the referee lifts his hand away with a booming shout, and instantly, the massive warrior charges. 

For as delicate and slight as Byleth appears, it is quickly made known:

Fodlan’s archbishop is a demon.

•••❂❂❂•••

After that, they continue to come for Byleth, one after another. Sometimes they indulge, and others they beg off. That’s when they start to come for Dimitri as well, curious of the border-jumping rumors of a beast king. He’s hesitant at first, but, after all, can’t resist the challenge that is the skilled soldiers among their ranks.

Although the war is years past now, his movements are confident, the sheer strength behind every strike and blow and guard obvious.

But he is hardly all brute strength; one day at a midday bout, Claude watches from the edge of the makeshift ring with Byleth while Dimitri makes easy work of three of them at once. No simple feat, and nigh impossible if strength is all he had to fall back on.

His movements are mindful and deliberate, experience stitched into every flexing muscle. He wears no cloak today, and so the shape of his broad shoulders, the lines of his strong legs, are stark with his ever dark clothing, cinched very distractingly at an impossibly trim waist.

“His form’s good. He’s kept up his training, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, you sure are focused on _his form._ ” Byleth remarks wryly beside him, and Claude raises an eyebrow.

“Not sure I like the way you’re saying that.”

They study his face and meet his stare, enigmatic as always.

“You didn’t even notice that he’s fighting someone in a skimpy dancer’s outfit.”

“Woah! I _didn’t_ notice that! Aren’t they cold!?…Stop looking at me like that. It proves nothing.”

“Okay.”

Both look up as Cyril approaches them, and offers Claude a slightly crumpled handkerchief.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks, but…Cyril, what’s this for?”

“Shamir says if you drool any more obviously over Dimitri, it’d freeze on your face.” He tilts his head, examining. “I don’t see any, but you’re a king. It’d be pretty bad if you drooled in front of people. Anyway, yeah, you can hold onto that, I have a spare. I’m going to go check our perimeter. Shamir’s still keeping watch on you, so no worries about being safe. Bye!”

Then he walks off. Claude stands there, frozen as if struck dumb. Opens his mouth, pauses, and leaves his jaw hanging. Speechless. While Byleth blinks.

Blinks.

And laughs.

Laughs so hard, they end up doubled over.

“…What…”

Byleth throws their head back and _howls_.

•••❂❂❂•••

As days pass, more of the soldiers begin to mingle amongst each other. Words aren’t necessary to pass plates of dinner, to inspect weapons and armor. It’s become so some nights belong to Fodlan musicians, with their fiddles and lutes, the occasional drum; singers, dancers who step and twirl to clapping hands. Others are for the Almyrans and their own, the language foreign but the smiles universal.

Over time, a single night may hear an Almyran drum with a Foldan lute, while dancers and singers of both join in.

They begin to pitch tents amongst each other, gather firewood to share. A mouthful of strong Almyran liquor from someone’s flask sends a soldier to choked tears, earning boisterous laughter, while they make faces at Fodlan’s sour brewed beer.

Dimitri watches the smile on Claude’s face each time, even if doesn’t say anything about it.

Almyran food is rich with flavors and textures that they’re unfamiliar with, and Claude sighs happily with plates of curried stews, grilled meats, and saffron rice. The spices are enough to burn the inside of Dimitri’s mouth, even while Claude seems to relish every bite.

“Here, you’ll like this,” He insists, ladling another spoonful of lentil soup into Dimitri’s bowl. “it’s much more mild, promise.”

“I can’t eat all this.” Dimitri argues weakly.

“Sure you can. Don’t be shy.” Claude settles next to him, bumping shoulders. Dimitri’s cheeks heat at Byleth’s stare, which he can feel from the other side of the fire.

It is strange and wonderful to see him among the Almyrans they travel with. He moves among them as easily as he does anywhere else, speaking in a tongue Dimitri can’t understand, although he loves to listen. Aside from the food, the music, there’s an ease that settles into his shoulders, so subtle that he hadn’t even noticed that the tension had been there at all, until it’s gone, while he competes with them in bouts of archery and a peculiar board game that the spectators place bets on.

“Here, I’ll teach you guys.” Claude eagerly sits him down, setting up the board with all its pieces, blazing through the rules while Byleth watches.

At some point, he trades off one of his bracelets for a scarf of midnight blue, woven through with bold colored accents, which he sets around Dimitri’s shoulders.

“Your color.” Is the only explanation he gives with a wink.

“Aren’t _you_ in your element?” Shamir remarks, and Claude glows with the vigor of a boy who’d never stepped foot on a warpath.

He is; his day is spent securing the cooperation of stubborn nobles, untangling knots with fingers so nimble, they don’t even realize he’s taken the spool with it.

Then he plays games, dances and sings with his Almyran brethren. In the time between, he chats openly with all of them, weaving and walking the lines between all the soldiers and civilians alike, so much that once or twice, he accidentally speaks to Dimitri in Almyran.

“Whoops,” He laughs, running a hand through his hair at Dimitri’s blank stare. “I was just saying that the captain is going to give us an updated inventory as to what we have left, come tomorrow morning.”

Dimitri acknowledges this with a smile. Happy, genuinely happy, to see Claude so. “Very well.”

“…What are you looking at me like that for?”

“Ah, I was just thinking…how…” Dimitri admits softly, while Claude blinks. “You’ve seemed so enlivened, lately.”

“Yeah?” A tinge of red brushes across his cheekbones, scratching behind his ear.

Around them, the camp goes on. A few people are peeling and chopping vegetables for tonight’s dinner, while another few are prepping some fresh fish they’d caught from the nearby stream. Some children play ball with a pair of Almyran soldiers, startling a pack horse to huff and whinny.

“It’s nice to see.”

Claude doesn’t respond, but his smile pulls a little higher.

Someone calls him then, and he turns away to address the approaching Baran. As before, Dimitri is content to listen to the foreign words, trusting that Claude will tell him what he needs to know, should it be important.

Rather, he decides to give them a bit of space, even if his ears still tune into the flow of Almyra’s tongue, until words of a much different variety catch his attention instead.

•••❂❂❂•••

They’re just about on time with their projected schedule, Claude sees as they review progress. Though, he predicts that things will get hairier the further into Empire territory they go.

The farther they move out of the former Kingdom’s territory, as he explains to the Almyran captain, the more likely they are to see hostility.

“ _We are prepared._ ” Baran assures him.

“ _Of course. Just a heads up."_ Claude notes, looking over their map. They’re two weeks into the trip, with at least another six to go. It’ll be full on winter by the time they get back, and if the weather doesn’t cooperate with them, it may slow things down even further—

 _“I dare you repeat that._ ”

That tone isn’t normal on Dimitri’s voice. Outraged, booming hammer-on-steel, maybe _louder_ than Claude has ever heard it. It’s enough to stop his conversation _and_ his thoughts in their tracks, and he excuses himself.

 _That can’t be good_ , he thinks, quickly easing through a sparse few rows of spectators, to find a soldier positively _cowering_ before Dimitri, agitation wrought in the iron of his squared shoulders.

“Hey,” Claude approaches, placing a hand on his arm; _feels_ the tension in him, sees his clenched jaw. “Dimitri. What’s going on?”

Dimitri does not look at him. Does not waver from the man hunched in his armor, which might as well be tin, for how it’s protecting him now.

“Why don’t _you_ explain?”

Claude spares him a look before turning back to Dimitri when nothing but silence follows.

“Have you no words, now?” Dimitri demands, eye narrowing.

“—I’m sorry—” He stumbles over the words. “I didn’t mean—I meant no offense—”

“What you meant was very clear.” Dimitri’s canines flash, lip curling with displeasure.

“…Dimitri,” Claude tries again, “Fill me in, here.”

One, two, three, long and angry breaths, and Dimitri turns his head just enough to look at him.

“This man heard you speaking Almyran. He wonders how Fodlan is to trust a king who speaks a tongue they don’t understand. He asks how we would know if you and your comrades were planning something heinous right before us, without any of us being the wiser.”

“Ah. I see.”

Dimitri’s anger mixes with confusion.

“Are you not angry?”

“I think you’re angry enough for both of us.”

Their eyes meet, Claude’s calm dowsing his temper, if only a little, as hesitation flickers across his face, suddenly uncertain. Then Claude claps a hand to his shoulder assuring, “But, you’re right. We can’t have sentiment like that running rampant around here. Or anywhere, in Fodlan. Not anymore, and especially not under our own noses.”

Claude eases into a look so neutral, so wholly unreadable, that everyone holds their collective breath as he turns to face the man, now looking fearfully between them.

“So, tell me. What makes you think that I would do something so underhanded?” Claude inquires, tilts his head. “Is it my reputation? Have I done anything so deceitful as king to prove that I might?”

With one, then two, three unbothered steps, he lifts his jaw, even as his eyes harden like lacquered stone. The very air around him changes, while Dimitri watches; while _everyone_ watches.

“Or is it because of your own ignorance? You don’t trust us Almyrans or our language, because you don’t _know it_?”

“I—My apologies, Your Majesty.”

“I don’t want an apology. I want an _answer._ ”

He hesitates, scrambling for words before landing on, “I, I spoke thoughtlessly.”

“Oh, you did? Is that all? Well, _that’s_ alright, then.” Claude smiles then. Mirthful. And _sharp_.

Sensing a storm, the soldier watches him, shifting uneasily in place.

“Though, you’d better make note, that words have power. For instance, with just a few, I could have you punished. Horribly.” Claude reminds, to a flinch of the man’s pale face. “But I won’t. The world changes, bit by bit. As it does. As it should. And the day will come when such talk is a thing of the past…and you’ll be right there with it, and the world will leave you behind.”

He pauses, crossing his arms and considering the man before him, long enough that he squirms again beneath that piercing gaze, armor clinking pathetically loud in the surrounding hush.

“Or,” He adds, at long last, “You could take this chance, this moment, and learn from it. No one can force your mind to change, but you could open it. That choice is yours. Now, if you don’t mind, I happened to be quite busy planning a bloody coup with my fellow Almyran barbarians. And by _that_ , I mean organizing a meeting with the local baron to distribute emergency rations to your fellow Fodlans.”

Then he turns on his heel, striding past awed, baffled faces. Shamir falls into place beside him, following him through the crowd and out of sight.

•••❂❂❂•••

By the time the first star of the evening appears in lavender dusk above, the entire camp has heard. It’s quickly sorted that no one may speak ill of Claude without knowing Dimitri’s wrath. That the Almyran-born king is the only one besides the archbishop who may temper it; that his words may sound like a poet’s, but cut like a knife.

“Can’t believe I _missed_ it.” Byleth laments.

“ _B_ _yleth.”_ Seteth chides, while Dimitri shields his face in his hands.

Claude is still awake, of course, when later on, Dimitri retires to their tent for the night. He’s cross-legged on a padded mat, scrawling away by candlelight at his little foldable desk, when he enters, dropping the tent flap shut behind him.

“You’ll hurt your eyes.” Dimitri cautions.

“Hello to you too, my fretful companion.” Claude replies without looking up. “Don’t worry about my eyes. They’ll be fine.”

“Yet, I will continue to worry.”

“Alright, alright! Light another lamp, if it’ll allay your fears.”

So he does, without another comment, setting it beside the first lone candle.

“Okay, the light’s making things better. I admit it.”

No words come to him, and so Dimitri doesn’t respond. He simply hovers nearby, watching Claude dutifully working on—whatever it is he’s gotten up to now.

Yet sensing, perhaps, the weight of his thoughts, Claude’s pen hesitates. Stops. Then he looks up; a little tired, but still alert.

“Dimitri? You alright?”

“I just…wanted to apologize. For earlier.”

“Apologize? For what?”

“I perhaps…overreacted. I handled the situation poorly.”

“…Ah, you’re talking about that soldier?” Claude sets his pen down entirely, and leans back onto his outstretched arms, while Dimitri follows his lead, sitting on the edge of their nearby bedroll.

“Yes.” Wringing his hands, Dimitri admits, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I should have…been calmer about it. More discreet, perhaps.”

From afar, the clinking of armor and equipment, muffled through the thick canvas walls. A hearty bout of laughter, farther still, while the kings sit silently.

“Well,” Claude finally says, “I dunno about that. It worked to our advantage.”

Dimitri whips his head up to stare at him.

“To our _advantage?_ ”

“Sure,” Claude answers his disbelief with a shrug of a shoulder. “After all, everyone now knows where we stand on such talk and such views. Besides, your _temper_ can be very handy. I can yap all I want, but I can’t instill primal fear quite the way you do, my darling sweet husband. Makes people’s ears perk up a little better.”

He chuckles at that, but noticing Dimitri’s doubt, he sits forward to rest an elbow on the desk, urging, “Oh, come on! It worked at the war council, it worked here. Your reputation precedes you and all, but nothing like seeing it in action. It’s like a nice little trump card to keep in our back pocket.”

Dimitri’s frown deepens. Abashed, he only barely meets Claude’s eye.

“My reputation is nothing good. And it is hardly all that I am.”

Quiet again, if but for a moment, Claude goes still. Watches the gold of his hair seep into shadows, can almost feel the creaking bow of his shoulders beneath whatever weight it is that pulls him down.

“That’s true,” He agrees, “It isn’t all of who you are. But I hope you don’t mind me using the opportunities when I see them.”

“No,” Dimitri closes his eye, lowers his face into his hands to rub tiredly at his temples. “You may as well, if there is anything to be gained from my shortcomings.”

“Everyone has them.” Claude reasons. “I happen to think we make quite the team. Besides, you’re really not as terrible as the rumors say.”

Pen in hand again, he sifts through his stack for a clean sheet of parchment.

“…I am worse.” Dimitri breaks the silence, faltering and afraid. “I am so much worse.”

“And what makes you say that?” Claude asks without glancing up, again scrawling away, line after line, black ink to white. Dimitri shifts uncomfortably, half veiled in the castoff light by which he writes.

“I…they are…” A hesitation, a confession, “They are right, to say that I am barely human. That I am only something _other_. If I ever was anything but.”

The pen stops. Claude rests his chin on the back of his hand, and peers across his desk, while Dimitri fidgets again, the dark fur of his cloak indeed makes him look, out of the corner of one’s eye, some massive beast crawled from the forests.

“Then…what are you?”

All too easily, Dimitri slips into somber, quiet despair.

_I don’t want to say_ , is what Claude reads from the dour look on his half-hidden face.

“I wish I knew.” Dimitri mumbles. Then, he takes one more long, drawn-out breath. Raises his head, sets his jaw.

“But I want to do better.”

He says it with wavering confidence, but with conviction. An unsteady step, a sure voice.

“Better, hm?”

“Yes.” Dimitri answers. “For those who have supported me for so long, defended me when I was indefensible.”

A moment. A pause, a flicker of blue gleam in the light.

Dimitri undoes his cloak, lets it thump to the floor while he turns and shifts closer, his ungloved hands coming to rest at the edge of Claude’s desk.

“For myself, as well,” Dimitri meets his eye. Reaches, before his fingers curl in and back, clenching, before he begins mindlessly fussing with his ring. “And for you.”

How relentless, the animal that bites and rends. That hungers, that has Claude hoping where he has never wanted, has him leaning in towards Dimitri, drawn to blue that could drown a country.

“For me, huh?” He teases softly, a smile he doesn’t control rising warm, unbidden.

“Yes,” Dimitri insists, his face tilting in. Honest, vulnerable; too much so. “For you.”

Someone could chew him up.

“Claude,” Dimitri breathes, “Please. If I may ask…”

“…Yeah?”

“Would you teach me Almyran?”

Claude goes still. Sits up.

“…Huh?”

“I—I. Well.” Flushing, Dimitri drops his eye to the table, before he gathers courage to dart it back up. “I realized that I have maybe never…fully acknowledged your heritage. What that means for you, to walk between multiple identities, between two countries and two peoples who do not, er…always get along.”

Biting his lip, wringing it briefly between his teeth, Dimitri goes on to say to Claude’s stupefied face, “Let me do better in that, too. I’d like to try. If you would be willing to share that part of yourself with me.”

“You…you want to? Really?”

“If… if you could trust me so much. I understand if you have reservations, or if it’s too much trouble.” Dimitri admits, and at Claude’s next silence, clears his throat, looks away, as if there is anything of note to see in their threadbare tent.

“Nevermind. Perhaps it was a nonsense idea, maybe a foolish whim—”

“No,” A laugh bursts from the other side of the desk, and suddenly, Dimitri’s hands, his broken, gnarled, scarred hands, are snatched up and held fast, warmed by the fire’s dancing light. The same dance that flickers in Claude’s sea of green.

“You want to learn? Like, you really want to?” Claude is grinning molten gold.

“I. I do.”

“Then…sure!” A squeeze to his hands, and a laugh so dear, he wishes he could drink it like wine. “You got it.”

And Dimitri smiles back at him. “Truly? You will?”

“Yeah. Why not? Just don’t expect me to be an _easy_ teacher.” Claude winks, and Dimitri chuckles.

“Of course not.”

“Good. That’s settled and out of the way, then.”

Releasing Dimitri’s hands, Claude continues to beam.

“And…I take it that means you’ll start joining me in the morning, as well?”

“Is that alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Dimitri ponders it, as they ready themselves for sleep.

 _Why wouldn't it be_ , indeed.

“Goodnight,” Claude bids him, as he undoes the strap of Dimitri’s eyepatch, carefully lifts it off and away. “Remember, bright and early tomorrow.”

“Bright and early.” Dimitri agrees as they put out the lights and lay beside each other. Beneath wool and cotton, and beneath his sprawling cloak, the fur warm against the night’s chill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they be like:  
> claude: say it  
> dimitri: no you  
> claude: no you  
> dimitri: no you  
> claude: no you  
> felix, somewhere up in the north: [is suddenly very irritated, has a terrible headache, and doesn't know why]
> 
> -
> 
> [lays down in mixed-race person feelings. mixed person in an interracial relationship feelings.]
> 
> this chapter took it outta me, i'll tell ya that for free.
> 
> also, you have no idea how long i was waiting to write that scene of byleth and claude in their office.
> 
> thank you pari, as always, for the feedback ♥

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [pari](https://twitter.com/artparallax) and [yasumii](https://twitter.com/yasu_miiii) for reading this over for me while i squinted at the screen in sleep-deprived delirium <3
> 
> i am here [twitter](https://twitter.com/_lazulila)


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